What We Know of War
by thewanderers'wanderingdaughter
Summary: 3rd part to my Power and Control series. They're on the run. They're on their own. Dark forces are hunting them, and won't stop at anything to get what they want. They have to find the Horcruxes, but how? The darkness is closing in and it's going to take all they have and more to not give in. Not canon compliant. Dark. Forbidden romance. Every warning applies for this one.
1. How It Began

**(This fic is the third part to my Power and Control series. If you want full context behind this story, please go read Power and Control and then Strange Mercy before continuing to read this fic.)**

 **Welcome back, everyone! I'm glad to get back to this at last. Please remember this story is M rated and as the story progresses, will earn its rating. Mature themes are incoming, and this will serve as my only warning. (Okay, I'll include a few here and there when they apply, but please spare me the complaints if you didn't heed them!)**

 **As a reminder, if you want to keep up to date with me and see content ahead of updates for all my fics, you can find my blog on wordpress. My username there is inkyfeetprints but you can also find me on there by typing my username from this site into the searchbar.**

* * *

Chapter One: How it Began

[five minutes after fleeing the Burrow]

Draco's hand was cold in her tight grip. Ron was panting on her side, clutching a stitch under his ribs. Harry was pulling him along urgently, following Hermione's lead as they plunged through foot traffic. Every shop and restaurant they passed was a blur of light and people. Music drifted along the street from some unknown source—it sounded vaguely familiar, but in her panic, Hermione couldn't place it.

"We should have stayed," Ron was muttering, his voice full of anguish. " _I_ should have stayed. Who knows what's happening now—"

"You can't go back," Harry said, dodging a tourist with a camera. "You know you can't. It'll put you _and_ them in danger if the Death Eaters are still there."

Ron was shaking his head.

"They'll be fine," Hermione tried to sound as reassuring as she could, narrowly avoiding tripping over someone else's foot. "The Order's with them."

But the look on Tonk's face before they'd left…

Distracted by her thoughts, Hermione knocked shoulders with a stranger by accident, and by sheer force of will barely managed to keep from falling backwards. Draco pulled her forward and she resumed walking quickly—Harry and Ron had hardly even noticed what had happened, and were several feet away by now. Her stomach sank as she and Draco hurried to catch up. There were so many other pedestrians, she didn't dare take her eyes off them for fear of losing them entirely.

"Harry, slow down," she tried to call out, but he was past hearing range.

The red glare of the crosswalk light and the blur of cars driving past forced them to stop. The sky was darkening, and as Draco fell in step beside her, the sound of the traffic and the chatter of the passerby hit her all at once. She hadn't realized she was panting, too, and looked around wildly, half expecting to still be in the tent at the Burrow, surrounded by Death Eaters.

But they were in the Muggle world now. She'd been too frightened to think properly and had apparated them to the first place she could think of: London.

"Why are we here?" Harry asked her.

The people waiting to cross on the other side of the street were staring at them curiously. Hermione realized with a start that they were still wearing their attire from the wedding, covered by their dress robes. She'd had the foresight to pack themselves several changes of clothes, blindly taking as much as she could from each of their clothing supply with a wave of her wand. They could stop to change clothes, but they had to find a bathroom, first.

"I don't know," she said, pressing a hand to her temple. "It was the first thing I could think of."

"Shouldn't we stop, then?" Harry asked.

The light changed at that moment, however, and pressured by the push of the crowd, they hurried across the street.

"Nice costumes," a friendly stranger said to them in passing.

"Show us a magic trick!" Someone called out from the other side of the street.

Ron was limping, his face twisting slightly.

"Ron, what's wrong?" Hermione asked.

"I think I splinched," he said, wincing. "I think I'm missing some toes. I can feel blood in my shoe."

Hermione felt her face drain of color. Draco's hand tightened around hers as he stared down at Weasley's shoes.

Harry's eyes were glued to hers. "What do we do?"

"I—" she looked around again. People were pushing past them to continue on their way, jostling them to the side. She caught sight of a local food mart and bit her lip. "Can you keep walking?"

Ron tested his foot gingerly. "Yeah, I think, if I don't lean too much on it."

"We're just going to cross the street," she said, pointing to the food mart. "There should be a bathroom in there. We'll heal your foot, and then leave. Harry, help him walk."

Harry hurried to Ron's side, and Ron wrapped an arm around his shoulders, gritting his teeth.

"We might as well get supplies, if we're not sure where we're going next," Draco suggested.

Harry nodded. "Be quick."

Hermione reached into her bag, her arm sinking in to the elbow, and rummaged for what felt like an eternity. They heard clattering and rustling coming from inside the relatively small bag, and when she pulled her arm out she was holding a wallet.

"This one's got the Muggle money, I think," she said, weighing it in her palm. "Draco and I will get the supplies. Head to the loo and do what you can to stop the bleeding. We'll meet you there as soon as we can, and we'll leave from there."

"Why?" Ron asked, frowning through his wince. An elderly woman pushed a cart around them, staring strangely at them. When Hermione noticed her and turned to look at her, the woman looked away abruptly and hurried away with her cart.

"So no one can hear us. Or at least _see_ us."

"Oh." He nudged Harry. "Let's go. The inside of this damn shoe is soaked." He was turning paler and paler.

Upon entering the store, they separated at once, each group heading in opposite directions.

Hermione grabbed a basket and pulled Draco along with her other hand as he looked around hesitantly.

They rushed from aisle to aisle, dodging carts and other shoppers. Unsure of where to begin, Draco looked around, mystified at the numerous aisles. Bright red signs hung from the ceiling, indicating what goods could be found in each aisle. Hermione walked right past the refrigerated aisles, lit up like Hogwarts at night, and Draco followed her quickly, fighting back a shiver.

"What do we need?" he asked.

Hermione sighed. "Food. Water, maybe. I'm not sure what else. Maybe a first-aid kit."

"For healing?" Draco touched her shoulder. "You _are_ a witch, you know."

She paused at the start of the canned goods aisle. Draco was struck at the bleakness in her expression.

"I'm no good at healing spells," she confessed. Her eyes darted to where the bathroom was, where Potter was probably trying to heal his friend. "I can only do the most basic ones. Since we can't go back to get Ron's toes, and we don't have Skelegro…There's only so much I can do. I'd rather have the muggle version, in case I can't…"

She turned and rushed down the aisle, grabbing cans with the barest of glances at the labels and then dropping them into the basket.

"Grab whatever you like," she said, looking over her shoulder. "Nothing perishable. And grab plenty enough to share. I don't know when we'll be able to shop again. Maybe another basket, too."

The aisle loomed in front of him; two endless lanes of brightly colored cans. It was new, and it was strange—he'd never seen such an array, much less ever stepped inside a Muggle food store. The lights overhead were weak and buzzing loudly. More than once he spied a too casually dressed customer wearing clothing that was better worn only at home. There was tinny, modern music being played somewhere. It was all like a large tapestry woven through with the brightest, loudest colors. He felt slightly disoriented.

Canned foods—he'd only ever seen food come fresh from the vendors and straight into the kitchen at home, where it had been washed and dressed and cooked or put into pickling jars by the House Elves.

He picked a can at random and stared at it. _Clam chowder_ , the label read. The picture on the label showed a steaming bowl of it, but the can was cold, and he was doubtful anything out of it would taste as good as the picture looked. He shook it gently, hearing a rather sickening sounding _slgg slgg_ sound from inside.

"Draco," came her voice.

Draco looked up. She was at the end of the aisle, her basket already full of cans to the point where it looked too heavy to carry. She jerked her head, trying to appear casual, but he saw the urgency in her eyes.

"We don't have much time," she said.

"Right."

He dropped the can into his basket, and hurried down the aisle, grabbing cans at random along the way.

* * *

The girl at the register was taking too long scanning everything. She had given them an amused sidelong glance at their arrival, but said nothing as she began to scan their items. Hermione crossed her arms tightly over herself, shifting from foot to foot. Draco was staring intently at the scanner, secretly fascinated by the red glare from the scanner and the electronic little _'blip'_ that was emitted upon the registering of every item.

"Did we get enough?" he asked.

She shook her head. "I don't know. I don't know how long we'll be—" she trailed off and pushed her hair from her face. Draco watched, and tucked in the strand that she'd missed. She stared up at him, her face gentle and tired. She was cupping her elbows in her hands, a crease between her brows, and he thought back to less than an hour ago when he'd been straddling her in the dark of Weasley's garden, his hand between her legs, her mouth parted and panting her release. Her eyes traveled upwards briefly to look at him, and then widened a fraction. She opened her mouth to speak when the cashier interrupted her.

The cashier told them their amount then, and Hermione brought out her purse again and fished through it, hiding it from view as she picked out bills. Draco peered inside and frowned.

When the transaction was finished, Draco took the cart and pushed it, albeit a little clumsily, to the back of the store, following Hermione as she led him to the loo.

"Quickly," she whispered, slowing down to clutch at his arm. Her eyes were on his hair again. "Your hair's going back to its regular color."

Draco ran a hand through it quickly, as if he could feel the change as it was happening. His eyes were glued onto hers, and he was distracted by the sight of her hair growing longer, to the point that he tripped over something on the ground and the cart swerved.

"Your hair's changing, too."

Luckily, by then they had reached the bathrooms at the back of the store, located beside the frozen foods. Hermione rushed ahead.

"Wait," he hissed, and she turned around. "We can't just take all this in there..." he frowned. "Can we?"

She glanced around. "It doesn't matter. There's no one here."

She went to the men's room (a single occupancy) and knocked. The door opened a crack, and Draco caught a flash of Potter's eye as he peered outside.

"Let us in," Hermione whispered, and then it opened wide.

As he was pushing the cart in, someone came into the area and caught sight of him. They wore a tidy uniform and Draco guessed they must be a worker. The person halted in their tracks, dumbfounded, watching as he closed the door behind him, putting the laden cart out of view. He supposed it didn't matter. They would be gone soon, hopefully.

When the door was locked behind him, and the cart was pushed against the wall, he stopped to catch his breath. He and Hermione had been rushing through the store—the whole ordeal had taken no longer than twenty minutes.

"How are you?" he asked Weasley, who was sitting on the ground, legs stretched out in front of him as he leaned against the tiled wall.

"Bleeding's stopped," he said, shrugging. "I don't think I'll be getting my toes back, though."

Hermione rushed forward. "Let me take a look."

There was a knock at the door, and they froze.

"Who's got a cart in here?" said a loud, authoritative voice. "That's not allowed. Bring it out!"

"Let's go," Potter said. He helped Weasley stand from the floor.

There was another, harder knock at the door.

"Grab the bags," Hermione said, and she and Draco lunged for the cart, grabbing the handles by the fistful. There were too many of them. Hermione was opening her bag, and as he watched, its mouth yawned open as if it were a large sack instead.

He understood and eased the bags inside as quickly as he could, his hands shaking.

"Open this door! Do it now, or we're calling the police!"

"That's all of them," he said to Hermione, and she closed the bag. It immediately shrank back to its regular size. She adjusted it on her shoulder and grabbed his hand.

"Is it heavy?" he asked. "I can carry it."

"It's fine," she insisted. She hooked her arm through Weasley's. He looked faint. Sweat beaded his temple.

"I'll take a look at it once we're safe," she promised. He nodded.

"Ready, Harry?"

"Yeah."

Draco squeezed her hand, and she turned and Apparated them away.

* * *

[two hours later.]

Once they had set up the tent and after Hermione had frantically thrown up the wards they had almost dragged Ron to the center of the tiny, cramped sitting room. Hermione had sent Harry out with his invisibility cloak to gather firewood, and Draco to search through her small purse for their shopping bags in order to find the first-aid kit.

Her hands had been shaking as she'd taken Weasley's shoes off, turning almost as pale as he was already. Draco had returned some minutes later with the kit held tightly between his hands, and found Weasley passed out on the couch with Hermione sitting on a wobbly stool, holding his bloody foot in her lap, her wand held over the wounds.

"Tergeo."

The bloody mess on his foot vanished.

She let out a shaky sigh and uttered a healing spell, but she was so nervous and agitated that she flubbed the pronunciation without realizing, and nothing happened. She frowned, and tried again, to the same result: nothing.

"No, no, no," she'd whispered, frowning.

Hopeful, she'd tried again. Nothing.

"The wounds aren't closing," she'd said, and noting the panic in her voice, Draco rushed over, abandoning the kit and plasters he'd managed to pry out of the plastic box.

"These are the only spells I know, and nothing's happening," she had said quickly, wiping at tears rolling down her cheeks. "I don't know what to do! He's passed out, what if he loses his foot? And I can't do anything!" She stared down at her hands in total frustration. "We can't even go back for his toes!"

The sight of Hermione Granger breaking down was as rare as finding a Unicorn in the wild. He remembered once, in third year, hearing about her having a break down after encountering her boggart in their final exams. There was the shameful memory of what he had reduced her to almost a year and a half ago, when he'd had her trapped against him in Umbridge's office, and she, who had always seemed to confident and capable, had shown that his words did hurt her, and that he had opened up an insecurity inside her that never should have been there.

"It's okay," he said, reaching down to squeeze her hand. He leaned down beside her, wrapped his hand around hers, still clutching her wand.

 _Make it right._

He would be thinking those words to himself for the rest of his life. To prove he was worthy. To atone for his sins.

 _Merlin knows how many more there'll be._

"Repeat after me, okay?"

She nodded, and concentrated again.

"Vulnera Sanentur."

She repeated it and held her wand close to the wounds.

"Say it again," he encouraged. "Get to the other ones, too."

Her eyes had turned wider, staring in awe and relief as the flesh began to close itself back together.

Where there had been five toes, there were now only three. All the blood had been cleared away but she had still gotten some on her hands. She let them go limp on her lap as she steadied her breathing, staring at the now healing foot.

She turned to look at him. Her unspoken question hung in the air between them.

"I got into a lot of trouble, when I was younger," was all he said.

She pulled him down by the front of his robe to kiss him. Her cheeks were wet with tears, and she hiccuped loudly when they broke apart.

"Thank you," she whispered through her smile.

She wiped at her eyes and stood, gently set Weasley's leg over the arm of the couch, careful not to jostle his foot.

"Tergeo," she said, pointing her wand at the dried blood. It vanished, and then she looked at Draco.

"Help me lie him down," she said, "but keep his foot elevated."

When they had finished, Draco had looked up and felt his stomach jolt in surprise at finding Potter there, watching them. How long he'd stood there, Draco didn't know, but he was still holding a heap of twigs and thick branches in his arms, and his invisibility cloak was slung over his shoulder.

Hermione had noticed him, too, and rushed to him. She took a few of the smaller pieces of wood, and two logs Harry had managed to find, and then knelt at the fireplace, arranging them carefully.

"Is he alright?" Potter asked at last, setting the rest of the wood down by the fireplace.

"We think so," Hermione had said shakily. "He's unconscious."

"Won't someone see the smoke?" Draco asked, nodding towards the fireplace, in which Hermione had successfully lit a fire with a tap of her wand.

"Not with the wards up," Hermione said. "This kind has a charm built into it to dissipate the smoke quickly and without much detection. Mr. Weasley told me about it in fourth year, when we were all using this tent at the Quidditch World Cup."

"I can't believe you remembered that," Potter said. He had taken off his dress shoes and left them in a distant corner of the tent. Draco felt an impulse to toss his out the window, if it could open. They likely would not be needing those for a long time.

"If it's giving us an advantage now, then I'm glad I did," Hermione replied, yawning.

A wind howled loudly outside.

Potter had gone to sit at the entrance of the tent, his eyes distant and troubled. Draco sat down on a slightly smelly armchair by the fire, beside Hermione. She was dozing off in her armchair, though fighting to stay awake. When Draco got up to go to the loo, she jerked awake, and asked where he was going.

"Oh," she said, snapping fully awake when he told her, "I've got our toothbrushes and some extra toothpaste. _Accio._ "

Her bag flew into her lap, and she used another _Accio_ to summon the hefty bag of toiletries she'd brought.

Draco took it, wide-eyed.

"What _didn't_ you bring?" He asked.

"Is that a complaint, or a compliment?" She asked, the corners of her lips turning upwards.

Draco placed his hand on her shoulder and squeezed lightly. "Thank you."

"Well, as a daughter of dentists, the importance of personal hygiene was made very clear to me from a young age, and as much as I care about you all, I don't want to have to pitch someone outside of the tent for not washing up."

There—some of the tension had gone from the atmosphere. Potter laughed outright at that. Grinning, Draco made his way to the loo.

After he'd left, Harry sat closer to Hermione.

"I think I could warm up to him," he admitted quietly, sounding rather surprised to hear himself saying it aloud. "The git really has turned it around."

Hermione leveled a look at him, but he was smiling.

"He clearly cares about you. I was worried he'd refuse to help around with the menial stuff, but he did, and he helped Ron…he didn't have to."

"His snark's still there," she warned. "Don't think he won't bite back if you or Ron bite first."

"As long as he doesn't threaten or harm anyone, I'm fine with that," Harry replied, then paused. "I still have some reservations about him being here. I'm not implying he will, but if you ever even _think_ or find evidence that he's going to try to cross us, or go off on his own, do whatever it takes to stop him, and let me know, so we can all deal with him together."

Harry's green eyes were earnest. She traced his scar with her eyes, and nodded.

 _What good is there in trying to contact a family who would know you'd betrayed them the instant they found out you aren't dead?_ Hermione thought. She knew beyond a doubt Malfoy, though worried sick over them, wouldn't do something as hazardous as that. He had severed his ties, and knew it fully well. She recognized that in the weighted, stiff lines of his shoulders, in the haunted look of his eyes.

Harry was right to have his suspicions, though. They had been crossed before. Crossed, and deceived. If it happened now, when the stakes were higher, who knew what disaster they'd face this time?

"I will."

There was a loud creaking as Ron awoke groggily, sitting up in his bunk. He was still pallid, and he blinked at them through bloodshot eyes.

"What's going on?"

"Nothing."

Draco emerged from the loo, pushing a hand through his hair. He had taken his robe off, and his dress clothes were rumpled and creased, shirt untucked. Hermione was struck by how tall he looked.

"What time is it?"

Harry glanced at the watch Mrs. Weasley had given him. "Nearly three in the morning."

"Fancy that," Ron croaked from his bunk.

"Time for bed," Hermione said, rising from her seat.

"Fine by me," Ron said. He flopped back down without another word.

Hermione tapped her wand once more against the lip of her bag. "Accio clothes."

Four neat stacks of folded clothing emerged from the cavernous bag, and she lay them down on the little table for everyone to claim their pile. She took hers and changed and brushed her teeth speedily in the loo, then let Harry take his turn. Draco went in after Harry came out to change, too.

When he came out, everyone was lying down. He looked around, unsure. The bunk below Hermione's was empty. He crawled into it, feeling for the threadbare blanket he'd seen earlier at the foot of the thin sleeping pad. Despite the small fire Hermione had lit, the tent was still cold, and the howling winds outside only made it feel colder.

It was late afternoon when he awoke. Hermione and Weasley were already up, only having woken an hour before. The winds had died and Potter was gone, and when he'd asked where he was, Hermione told him Harry had gone out to find more firewood.

True to his word, Potter had come back within minutes, bearing another small load of kindle and cracked, mossy logs.

Weasley had limped to the loo and back to his cot, shaking his head grimly when Hermione had offered him help with walking.

Draco waited restlessly by the entrance. There were only two windows in the whole tent, and they were small and mostly decorative. It certainly had seen better days, too. But shelter was shelter, and Draco had to admit it was comfortable, at least. He hadn't known what to expect but this was as good as it got, he supposed, and was frankly thankful they didn't have to sleep under the bare sky. There was a deer walking around a short distance from the tent, grazing slowly. He watched it for a moment before turning to the others.

He hesitated before speaking.

"Well, what now?"

Hermione looked over at Harry.

"I've got no fucking clue," he said, wiping at his face. His shoulders slumped.

"Is anyone hungry?" Ron asked. His stomach growled loudly for emphasis and he winced.

Harry shook his head but stood up. "I'll heat up some soup."

"With _what_?" Draco asked, looking around. The tiny kitchen area was lacking in any utensils aside from two wooden bowls and a spoon.

"Hang on," Hermione said, and got up. They watched curiously as she went to the entrance of the tent, walked out, and came back in a moment later, holding a handful of rocks.

Ron stared at them dourly,

She set them down onto the small table and extracted her wand from her pocket. She tapped each rock with her wand, muttering a transfiguration spell each time.

Draco admired her as she worked, from the concentration in her gaze to the way she held her wand, rapping it gently against the rocks, every movement deliberate.

When she'd finished, there was a small steel pot, an array of cutlery and bowls, and some cups.

"Thanks, Hermione," Harry said, squeezing her shoulder gently. He picked up the pot and took it to the wood-burning stove and went to the counter, where Draco had left all the canned goods he and Hermione had acquired from the store.

"We don't have running water," Ron said suddenly. "The chamber pots in the loo empty themselves, but the sink doesn't run, and neither does the one in the kitchen, I'll bet."

"There's a stream close to here," Potter said. "I've been walking past it to get wood."

"How close?" Hermione asked.

"Two minutes walking, probably."

"Do we have buckets?" Draco asked.

"There's one there," Hermione pointed to the corner of the tiny kitchenette, where a metal bucket stood.

"I'll go get water," he said, and grabbed the bucket. He took out his wand with the other, and tapped it, muttering a duplicating spell. He caught the new bucket mid-air before it crashed onto the ground.

"Need help?" Potter asked, as he slopped the contents of one of their many cans into the pot. He prodded his wand at the burner, and a small flame started there and began to warm the pot.

"No, I'll be back soon," Draco said.

"I'll go with you," Hermione said, and walked up to him, taking the second bucket. "If that's okay. I need to readjust the wards so we can get to the stream without anyone finding us."

"Of course it is."

They exited the tent and walked to the stream in silence, the sun glaring overhead in a slightly cloudy sky. The dense forestry around them rustled in the mild breeze. They reached the stream and dunked their buckets in. The water was somewhat clear—Hermione could see fish darting away from them as the came closer, their feet almost dipping into the stream itself.

"We'll have to purify it when we get back," Hermione said, looking into her bucket. "Just to be safe."

He nodded, lifting his bucket out of the water with straining arms to set it down onto the ground. A bit of water sloshed out at the motion.

"You said you came here once with your parents."

"Twice. Years ago," she said, looking around almost wistfully, as if expecting to see her parents walk out from between the trees. "It was nice."

She approached him and Draco wrapped his arms around her.

"I need to see them," she whispered. "I need to make sure they're okay."

"When?"

"I don't know," she paused to think. "Maybe sometime when Harry and Ron aren't with us."

He frowned. "You're not going to tell them?"

"No. I don't know," she admitted. He stroked her hair softly.

She pulled back slightly to look up at him, and Draco, sensing what she wanted, was ready. He kissed her, backing her up against a tree carefully. She gripped at the front of his sweater, pulling him back in again. He kissed her deeply, his hands cradling her head between them, his fingers caught in the thicket of her hair. She broke for air, and Draco's lips trailed down to her throat, sucking lightly, teasing with his teeth.

She moaned his name quietly, and a shiver of pleasure ran through him.

The air was cool; they'd both foolishly left their robes in the tent. He stepped a little closer to her, wanting to shield her from the chill. He belatedly realized they still had not changed out of their wedding outfits. In all their panic to leave the Burrow and then London, he had not noticed how lovely she looked in that red dress, as he'd wondered during the wedding.

Now, he had the best opportunity. He stepped back a little, keeping his hand on her waist. She watched him, her eyes questioning, but he said nothing as he took her in, his eyes dragging over her, from the dip in her neckline to her parted lips, her dark eyes shining bright.

She was blushing, noting the heat in his gaze, but it was in her eyes, too. The memory of what they'd done at the wedding flashed bright in his mind's eye. He knew she was thinking of it, too.

She pulled him closer and kissed him; her hands playing with the hair on the back of his head. It felt so good he shivered, letting his head fall back slightly into her hands, breaking the kiss without realizing.

She let out a soft, breathy laugh, one that had her checking herself after. Pictures, memories, of everything that had happened in the span of that same day flashed quickly in her mind's eye. She felt her shoulders slump slightly.

Draco watched her shift in mood intently.

"How do you feel?" He asked.

She let her hands down, leaned against the tree and sighed. Draco tried to not be distracted by her reddened lips.

"Scared, mostly," she admitted, a wry smile on her lips. "Not knowing what's coming next, what's our plan, how long we're going to be here…it's all very…" she gestured vaguely in the air, sighing. When a beat had passed and she still hadn't captured the right word, she shrugged. Draco frowned.

"I don't think I've ever seen you at a loss for words," he remarked.

A short burst of a laugh escaped her. "Well, that's how frightened I am," she said, crossing her arms. "Everything's so uncertain, now. Where will we be, a month from now? Two? Five? Will all this be over? Or will it just have begun? Will we even be close to having what we need?"

 _The Horcruxes,_ he realized. The hairs on his arms stood on end.

She was cupping her elbows now, holding her arms close to her middle.

"Ron says I worry too much," she said, looking away from him and onto the ground. "And he's right. I do. But I can't help it. I have to _know_ things. Or else how can I plan what we need, and what to look up beforehand, so we're prepared?"

A dart of annoyance at Weasley speared through him as he realized she was right. Old, brief memories of hearing Weasley chide her for voicing her concerns. He couldn't imagine how many other arguments there'd been between them both, but knew it had to be numerous, knowing Weasley's (frankly) jealous nature, and his tendency to judge quickly.

"I understand," he said, his voice earnest.

She peered up at him, suddenly rather shy.

Draco leaned in to kiss her, drawing her in tight by the waist.

"We'll deal with it together," he said to her gently, after breaking the kiss. She let out a small breath and brushed her hair from her eyes. They were a little dazed. "All of us. Day by day, as long as it takes. If we're unprepared, then we'll still do our best."

She nodded, her eyes closing. Her hands were splayed on his back, pressing him closer to herself. The heady scent of him overwhelmed her; it was deep and dark and grounding, an intricate mix of comfort and arousal. She breathed it in deeply, not caring if he noticed. She felt the rest of her tension draining from her. He was holding her hand, its heat providing a sense of comfort she hadn't realized how badly she'd needed over the past several hours. Hermione stared at him.

"How do you feel?" She asked.

"The exact same." He stepped away, grabbed his bucket.

Nevermind that he was rather fearful of falling asleep in such close quarters with Potter and Weasley around, when his nightmares were still prominent. Nevermind that the question of where and how his parents were faring were still haunting him as surely as Weasley was now worrying about his own family. That he was secretly doubtful over this mission, over how much the four of them could accomplish with such limited knowledge.

 _What else is there for you to do?_ A cynical voice asked him from within. _Go on your own? How well would you fare, then? What would you even do?_

He tried to picture himself on his own. The voice was right. What could he do, alone? Walk right into the Manor, when everyone there believed he was dead?

 _That'll go well._

What else was there to do but for him to either stay with the Order and wait, and try to be useful, or what he was doing now, and hope that they could actually make a difference?

Hermione was still looking at him. She didn't seem convinced that he didn't want to talk further about his current state, but not wanting to push it, thankfully didn't pry, though he knew she would be waiting for when he was ready to speak more openly about it. Warmth enveloped his heart.

Hermione looked back toward where they had come from, the invisible path that led to the tent. Their new temporary home.

"We should get going," she said, her voice soft. "They'll wonder why we're taking so long."

He bent to grab her bucket, too.

"No, I'll carry it," she said, going to pick it up.

"I don't mind," he said. "Besides, you still need to fix the wards, don't you?"

"Oh, right." She took out her wand. She gave him a smile. "Thanks."

They had to move slowly as she extended the wards. Draco remembered he was capable of magic, too, and levitated the buckets to fly after him without losing a drop as Hermione set the wards to encompass a part of the river, large enough that they could bathe in it if need be, though the tent had a small tub. She was repeating the incantation in a low voice, her wand held aloft, brows furrowed in concentration.

When Hermione was satisfied she had got it right, they went back into the tent. Ron was just finishing his soup, slurping loudly as he drank the last of it, bowl tipped up to his mouth. Harry was still eating his, nodding at them in greeting. He pointed his spoon to the table, where there were two other bowls, still steaming.

Draco went to the counter and set the first bucket down, and then headed to the bathroom to set another there, too.

Ron summoned a short, beat-up stool to rest his leg on. He set it down with another wince. Hermione stared at his foot.

"How do you feel?"

"Sore. It hurts, a bit. Especially when I woke up and tried to get off my bunk." Ron sighed and shrugged. "I'm just glad I can still walk at all. Clumsily, but I'll live." He turned to her, reached over to press her hand. "Thanks, Hermione. I mean it."

"It's nothing," she said, blushing. "I'm sorry we couldn't go back and get your toes."

Ron made a face. He picked up his leg a little, rolling his ankle in a circle. "As long as I've still got _some_ of them left, I don't mind. Better a few toes than my whole bloody foot, I guess."

"That's the spirit," Harry said, plunking his bowl down onto the table. "I know it's probably the last thing you want to hear, now, too, but I did tell you to _try_ to pay more attention in the Apparating course, didn't I?"

"So you got good marks in Potions for once and now you think you're star pupil," Ron sniped back, rolling his eyes, but he was smiling. "You're right, though. Even if I want to hex you for it."

Laughing, Harry took their bowls to the sink and tapped them with his wand, muttering a cleaning spell.

There was a lull.

Ron tried to stand from the table, gritting his teeth.

"I want to try and contact my family," he said.

Draco went still.

"Ron," Hermione said carefully, "perhaps we should wait a few more days."

He frowned. "Why?"

"On the off chance that the Death Eaters are still there, waiting for us to go back," Draco said at the same moment Harry had opened his mouth to say the same thing. "We don't want to run into their arms, or get your family in trouble if we're somehow intercepted."

"We have to _try_ ," Ron insisted. "I need to know they're okay. I'm just asking for this one time."

"We're not saying no, Ronald," Hermione said, and sighed. "We're just asking you to wait another few days. Just to make sure the coast is clear. For their sake, and ours."

Ron deliberated, then nodded.

"Alright."

Harry glanced at Draco, who had occupied himself with taking his and Hermione's bowls to the counter, and cleaned them magically.

Ron took a few tentative steps from the table, grasping the back of a chair for support.

"It's not so bad," he mused, more to himself than the others.

"Does it hurt at all?"

"Not anymore," he said. "Just feels strange with the new skin on my foot. It's tight." He made a face again, and walked slowly around the room, trying to adjust to the feel of a three-toed foot. Along the way, he surveyed the drabness of the tent interior.

"Why didn't we go to Grimmauld Place?" he asked.

"As far as I'm aware, the Order was still using it," Hermione said. "If we want to be unseen, we can't stay there."

"And where are we now?"

"It's called the Forest of Dean, you said," Harry replied, looking to Hermione for confirmation. She nodded.

"How long are we staying here?" Ron asked.

"We don't know. At least not until we can contact Ginny and Pansy, and find out what's going on on their end."

"But we're not going back to stay with them, right?"

"Right."

Ron nodded. "Alright." He looked at Draco.

"You didn't splinch at all?"

"No."

"Lucky you."

Draco narrowed his eyes slightly, and turned away to look out the window.

Hermione and Harry watched them carefully from where they were.

"Do you think the Death Eaters can find us?" Harry asked. "Like they did at the Burrow?"

Hermione shook her head. "They knew we'd be there because we go there in the summer. They probably knew about the wedding, too. I highly doubt they'd have known about Draco or Pansy being there."

"The Minister's dead," Ron said in a startled voice from the other side of the room. His face had gone pale. "I forgot about that."

"I wonder who did it," Harry said, his voice dark.

"I'd kill for a _Prophet_ right now," Ron muttered. "I _need_ to know what's going on _."_

 _"_ Sure, let's go get some Butterbeers while we're getting your paper," Draco said, a slight smirk on his lips.

Ron threw a glare at him. "Funny, aren't you? Don't tell me you're not interested in what's happening outside of here."

"Of course I am," Draco snapped. "But I'm not going to risk exposing ourselves just for a paper. It's too dangerous. The Death Eaters are probably still looking for you lot, and if we fuck up just enough so that they find out Pansy and I are involved, then it's all over before we've even begun."

There it was. Their peace from earlier had fled at the tones in their voices, and Hermione found herself now irate and exhausted at the thought of having to listen to Draco and Ron bicker for the rest of however long they would stay here.

 _And God knows where else._

"Let's please _try_ to get along," Hermione said, looking at Harry with an expression that said, _I knew this would happen._ Harry wore the same expression.

"Well, I'm going to go check on the wards," she said, and left the table. "You'd all better behave."

"Yes, mum," Ron called after her.

Hermione was half-tempted to show him his favorite vulgar gesture as she exited the tent.

Outside, the sun was setting. The forest was coated in the golden weight of its brilliance as it sank deeper behind the horizon, beams of its lights striking through the gaps in the foliage. Hermione admired it all briefly before taking out her wand to inspect the wards.

They were fine. For now. She had done the best she could, given what brief amount of time she'd had to learn them, but she harbored the secret fear that one day her spells would snap, and they would be left defenseless, and have no idea until they were surrounded by the enemy.

A twig broke loudly beneath her foot as she was taking a step back to look up at the sky, and she pushed it aside absently with her foot.

There was another _snap_ nearby and she faced her left quickly, heart suddenly skipping a beat. She frowned, squinting, searching for the unseen threat.

There was a quieter _snap,_ and she took a step back, her hand closing more tightly over her wand. There was an urge to call out, _Who's there?,_ but she shut her mouth tight, knowing that through the wards she couldn't be heard, but she wasn't going to risk anything.

There.

A rustling in the tall grass, to the farther left. It was coming closer. Whatever it was, it was big. She took another half-step back, heart pounding in her throat.

 _Stay, and see what it is._

She took another step back.

 _Or run._

It was coming closer. There was a dark form there, behind the thick tall grass. It was massive, and it was close to the ground, as if it had its nose to the ground, or as if it was a person crawling along the earth.

It was almost at the perimeter of her wards. She raised her wand, a curse on her tongue.

It stopped. She held her breath, waiting.

Slowly, it veered away from the tent, and back in the direction it had come from, gradually picking up speed.

Hermione exhaled slowly.

 _Probably a fox._

Her stomach twisted.

 _Foxes don't run that big._

"Hey."

She sucked in a startled breath, jumping, and turned to find Harry at the tent flaps.

"Ron found a radio."

"Really?"

"Yeah. We're trying to get it to work." He scanned the area around them, then took in her still startled expression. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," she said, though her eyes did another sweep of the area, in case the thing was coming back. "I thought I saw something."

"What?"

"I don't know. A fox, probably."

But now that doubt was there. She had the feeling it wouldn't go away.

They entered the tent, and the crackling sound of an antique radio had filled the tent. Draco stood, watching and occasionally offering advice as Ron prodded it with his wand, attempting to change the station.

"I think this was my grandad's, before he gave the tent to my dad," Ron said, as Hermione entered the tent.

"My father has one similar to it," Draco was saying. "He never used it. It was just for show."

"He sounds like a load of fun, your dad."

Draco paused. "Yeah, he's pretty shit."

Harry stopped cold in his tracks, and gave Hermione an incredulous look. Hermione, who was familiar with Draco's sentiments about his father, stared back grimly.

A split second later, old, merry music filtered through the tent. Ron beamed.

"Does anyone remember the news stations?" He asked.

They all shrugged.

"No problem. I'll find it." He took up his wand again.

"Wait—" Hermione said, and he paused. "Leave the music on. Just for a bit, please."

"Alright," Ron said, though he looked slightly confused as Hermione walked over to her bunk and sat down, leaning against the wall, hugging her knees to her chest. She felt Draco's stare on her and faced him where he sat in the kitchen. He looked at her curiously, silently asking if she was okay. She gave him a small, neutral smile, and then lied down, listening to the music as it played on, thinking of the happy occasions it must have been played at since it had been created. Harry, too, had gone to his bunk and sat on it's edge, the golden Snitch in his hands, staring at it with his brows furrowed.

The books. Why had Dumbledore given her those children's books? She had rifled through them before, but nothing had stood out to her.

 _It's worth looking at again. There's always something to find._

Hermione peeked over to the kitchen, where her bag still lay on the chair she'd occupied the night before.

 _Later,_ she thought.

They sat there listening to the music, contemplating their next move, processing what had happened the night before. Ron made more rounds around the tent. Harry continued to stare at the Snitch, pressing it to his mouth now and then to reveal its secret message, as if hoping having done it a certain amount of times was the key to unlocking its riddle.

An hour later, Ron finally remembered to change the channel, and he found a new station immediately after. The reporters were in the midst of talking about a series of break ins there had been in Godric's Hollow the week before. They listened raptly, their faces grave, as the report lasted a half hour, complete with interviews of some residents of the neighborhood. Now and then, a commercial played, or a minor breaking news segment was introduced. At the latter, they unconsciously leaned forward, listening, fearing they might miss it. Perhaps they already had, they worried in secret.

Then, in the span of four seconds, it happened. At the end of the burglary report, a report was delivered, so quick they almost missed it entirely had they not been paying such close attention. Hermione sat up, quick as lightning, her heart racing.

"The Prime Minister was found dead in his office late last evening. Pius Thicknesse succeeds him in office."

Then a commercial began to play, too quickly and too loudly to be coincidental.

They all looked at each other.

"What the _fuck_ ," Ron said.

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **Thank you for reading! Please leave a review!**


	2. The Thief

Chapter Two: The Thief

* * *

When Hermione woke up the next morning, Draco was already up. She spied him sitting in the kitchenette from her bunk, a cup of water in his hands. Harry wasn't in his bunk, but Ron was still dead asleep and sprawled over his thin mattress. His mouth hung open.

"He snores," Draco said, having noticed she was awake. He jerked his chin towards Ron, and then offered her a tired smile. She smiled back. The tent was cold.

"I should have warned you." She rubbed at her face, forcing down a yawn. "How did you sleep?"

He shook his head slightly, holding his cup up to his lips. "Well enough."

She frowned, but before she could ask anything Harry emerged from the bathroom.

"You're up," he said, following Draco's gaze to see Hermione sitting up in her bunk.

"What time is it?"

"About eleven in the afternoon," he said, glancing at his watch. "I just woke up, too. I don't know how long you've been up," he said, looking at Draco.

"Not too long," Draco replied. Hermione knew he was lying.

The sound of a stomach growling cut through the air.

"I'm hungry," Harry said. "I'll warm up some soup for us all."

Draco went into the bathroom next, and Hermione finally climbed down from her bunk, wrapping her arms around herself, shivering slightly. She went to the kitchenette to help Harry gather the bowls and spoons as he looked at all the cans.

"Any requests?" He asked.

Hermione stared at the numerous cans stacked on top of each other. A vague sense of foreboding wrapped around her.

"Anything will do," she said.

By the time the soup was ready, Ron had woken up, roused by the scent of the chicken soup warming over the little stove, lit by Harry's wand.

"How are you feeling?" Hermione asked as he limped to the small table.

"Better." He hugged her with one arm before dropping into his seat. "Loads better."

Draco exited the bathroom then and approached the table. Harry was dividing the soup between four bowls.

"Sleep well, Malfoy?" Ron asked. Hermione looked at him a little suspiciously, wondering if he really cared.

"I never was fond of sleepovers," Draco said, sitting down beside Hermione. Harry was passing out the bowls. He accepted his with a grateful nod.

Ron immediately began to eat when he had received his, hissing as it burned his tongue, but continuing anyway.

Hermione and Harry stirred theirs, smiling as Ron paused in between serving himself spoonfuls of soup to swear and take a large gulp of water from his cup.

"Ah, fuck, that's hot—"

"Slow down, then!"

Ron only shook his head, wincing. Draco tried to hold back a laugh, oddly reminded of Crabbe and Goyle, though he wouldn't say it aloud, as he suspected Weasley would not take kindly to the comparison.

* * *

After their meal, they all settled in different corners of the tent to think. Draco and Harry were restless, sometimes pacing, or in Harry's case, tossing the Snitch back and forth between his hands absently, lost in deep thought.

Hermione had finally dug out the children's books bequeathed to her by Dumbledore, and was currently reading them, her analytical mind in overdrive, searching for some clue.

She had never been much for fairytales, even as a child. Her parents had tried briefly, to engage her with stories of talking animals and genies and monsters. She had only accepted two of those to be true: magic, and monsters. Monsters simply because every child believes in monsters, and magic, because even logic couldn't completely explain away the things that happened to her, before she had known what she really was.

Some of these stories were dreadfully dull. She could barely read through them with a straight face. Every time she caught herself about to sigh with impatience, she stopped herself.

 _Dumbledore had to have a reason to trust it to you._

So she read on, examining every page for any annotations or underlinings of sentences. Anything. So far, she had found nothing.

Most of the morning and early afternoon had gone this way. Ron had dug out his Deluminator, and clicked it open and shut absently, unaware of Hermione needing the light to read. It was sunny outside, but with the limited access the sun got to the inside of the tent, it was rather dim without the light and after the third time the lamps guttered into darkness, Hermione marked where she left off with a finger and cleared her throat.

"I'm _reading,_ Ronald," she said, fighting to keep the sharpness from her tone.

"Oh." There was another click, and the light returned. "Sorry. I didn't know."

"Thank you."

After a moment Ron got up to stretch, and limped to the kitchen to sit heavily down into the softest armchair by the fire.

Harry, meanwhile, had fumbled the Snitch. It plunged for the floor, but he caught it with seconds to spare.

"You said you think he probably went after the locket," Draco said to Harry for the third time that day.

"Yes."

"What makes you think that?"

Harry hesitated, his eyes cobwebbed with the memory he'd seen in the Pensieve.

"Just…the _look_ in Riddle's eyes. It was beyond seeing it." He looked away from them. "Even though I was only seeing it through someone else's memory, it was like I could almost _feel_ how badly he wanted it. And that he would have it, no matter what."

A shiver trickled down Hermione's spine. She scratched at her shoulder.

"So he got it, then." Draco said. "You said the memory showed you it was stolen two days later and the elf was framed for it."

"He definitely got it," Harry agreed. "But I don't know where it is now. It was supposed to have been inside that cave." He sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. "Instead, we found that fake."

"Where is it now?" Ron asked.

"I've got it," Hermione said, rummaging in her purse as Draco watched curiously.

When she finally procured it, she handed it to Harry, who opened it, a tight set to his mouth as he reread the note inside.

"So why's this locket so important, then?" Draco asked. "Why did Vol—why did the Dark Lord want it so badly?"

"He found out he was descended from Salazar Slytherin," Harry said. "He tracked down his relatives and killed them. They were direct descendants, living in poverty. The only thing they had of value was that locket. It had belonged to Slytherin at some point. Riddle's mother had stolen it to sell for money before she had him. Riddle was working at Borgin and Burke's and found out who had the locket then and stole it from her. He believed it was rightfully his, so he was justified in killing her for it."

"Fucking hell."

Draco rubbed his hands over his face and then planted his elbows on his knees, looking haggard. Harry, Hermione, and Ron watched him carefully.

"Calling him by his surname makes him sound human," he said. "It's odd."

Hermione placed her hand on Draco's shoulder and squeezed softly. Harry and Ron could only stare.

"He was never human, mate," Ron said, shaking his head.

Harry handed him the locket and the note. Draco read it carefully, frowning.

"Where do we even _begin_ to look for the real one?" He asked.

"This is just a stab in the dark, but I reckon an 'Accio' wouldn't work," Ron said, trying to grin.

"Accio is only effective when used within a certain range," Hermione said. "It would be a long-shot. But we could still try."

Ron raised his wand and muttered an 'Accio'.

Nothing happened. He shrugged and put his wand away.

"Worth a try."

"Couldn't we take this to a specialist?" Draco asked, putting the note back into the locket and clasping it shut. The engraved serpent on it felt cool under his touch. He offered it back to Potter. "Maybe they'll know where Regulus had it made."

"It's more likely he used a Replicating spell," Harry said, accepting the locket from Malfoy. He turned it over in his hands, a distant look in his eye. "Plus, if word of this locket being shown around gets to the wrong ears, we'll be in danger."

Hermione felt a dart of sympathy run through her. He was probably still stuck in that cave in his mind, watching Dumbledore begin to die, weakened by that cursed water.

"Wouldn't Kreacher know something about it?" Hermione asked suddenly. "He was there with Regulus in that cave. Maybe he knows where it might be now."

Harry and Ron froze. Draco, not knowing what was happening, raised his brows.

"Kreacher," Ron breathed. "I can't believe we forgot about him, that sneaky git."

"Who?" Draco asked, frowning.

"Sirius's house-elf," Harry explained, a new gleam in his eye. "He was Regulus's before that. He was with Regulus when he replaced the locket. I can't believe we forgot, thanks Hermione."

"To be fair, there's been a _lot_ going on," she said. "I only just remembered him now, too. It's been a while since any of us has seen him."

"Should we get going, then?" Ron asked, standing from his chair with a wobble.

"No," Harry said, and they turned to look at him, confused. "Not tonight."

"Why?"

"We need to get to Diagon Alley, or Hogsmeade, someplace to find an owlery," Harry said. "We'll go in disguise, or wait until there's no one there to see us, so we can send a letter—" He was cut off by Hermione raising her palm, gesturing for him to stop. She dug into her purse again, into one of its smaller pockets, and withdrew a Galleon.

"Er—what are you doing?" Harry asked.

Hermione smiled. "Saving you time."

She concentrated on the Galleon, willing out a message to be transmitted down to its receptive twin, which was in Ginny's possession.

When she was done she took it to Harry and showed him the message.

 _Is everyone safe? We need to know if Grimmauld Place is empty._

Harry squeezed her arm gently in thanks, and nodded. Hermione sent the message.

She had been prepared to wait for a response, but it pinged in her pocket no less than a minute later. The others waited tensely, to hear Ginny's response.

 _Everyone's alright. Don't come to Burrow. Go to Grimmauld Place. Empty now. Tonks will keep secret._

She looked at the others.

"It's empty. Let's go."

* * *

"Why didn't you tell me you could have reached them through that thing all this time?" Ron asked the second they'd stepped foot inside Grimmauld Place. They'd had to go through the back entrance, left unlocked by Tonks, who though she had wanted to, could not greet them there, seeing as she'd been called away by Moody not two minutes after Apparating in Ginny and Pansy.

"I'm sorry," Hermione said. "I forgot. So much was happening, it wasn't until Harry started talking about owls that I remembered."

Her bag was also crammed so full with food and survival items that she'd even forgotten it had been in that tiny little pocket. Add to that the panic of what had happened at the wedding, and then healing Ron's foot…

"Well, thank Merlin you had it," Ron said, and the sound of quick steps made them all face the kitchen doorway, where Ginny and Pansy were hurrying through, their faces tight with worry and relief.

Ginny was the first to reach them—she launched herself into Ron and Harry's arms, nearly knocking them over. Pansy did the same, flinging herself at Hermione and Draco, who held her tightly. Somehow, they all ended up converging into one massive group, arms everywhere.

They were a family, Hermione realized, her eyes growing wet behind her eyelids. They fought and bickered and snapped at each other, but they took care of each other. She felt Draco at her side, one arm around her, the other around Pansy, and felt relief.

"Thank Merlin you're alright," Ginny muttered, as they all finally broke apart. "We were so worried."

"We were, too," Ron said. "I wanted to come back."

" _No,_ " Pansy said, aghast. "The Death Eaters tore through the place. It felt like forever. We only just managed to finish cleaning it all back up."

"We'd run them out of one part of the house and come downstairs and there'd be another bunch of them ripping things apart, like they were looking for something." Ginny said, and shook her head, sighing. "Someone set a fire in the wedding tent, too, but we put it out."

"How are Bill and Fleur?" Ron asked quickly.

"Fine. They're at their cottage. The Death Eaters can't get to them there. Mum and Dad went to visit them just now, to make sure."

"Was anyone hurt?" Harry asked.

"They really tried," Pansy said. "But no one was severely hurt. McGonagall came and and she's _terrifying_ when she's that angry. If you've seen her mad before, magnify that by a hundred."

Ginny nodded, shuddering.

"Once they were out, the Order put the wards back up. We're still not sure how they were able to get through in the first place. Dad says someone sold us out. We're still trying to figure out who. I think he knows, but he isn't telling."

"Who could it have been?" Hermione asked, secretly furious that someone had betrayed them.

"We think we figured it out," Pansy said gravely. "Mundungus Fletcher was supposed to be at the wedding. He was supposed to meet with the Order beforehand, to coordinate. He didn't show up then, and he hasn't shown up since."

"And Dad refuses to speak of him," Ginny added.

Ron's lips curled in a snarl. "Next time I see him, I'll tear him apart."

"You and me both," Harry muttered.

They assembled in the room Harry and Ron had previously been occupying.

"What did you lot do?" Pansy asked.

"We went to a forest to hide out," Hermione said. "We didn't know where else to go. We wanted to go here originally, but we thought it had been occupied."

"No trouble on that front," came a voice from the doorway, and they all whirled around. Tonks was leaning against the doorframe. "You're going to have to make this visit quick," she said, looking at Ginny and Ron. "I just came from Bill and Fleur's. Your parents are making their goodbyes."

"Damn," Ginny said, scowling. "How long, and what happened with Moody?"

"Taken care of. You've got about five minutes, I'd wager," Tonks said, glancing at her watch. She looked at Draco and the others. "They were upset when they realized you were all missing."

Ginny snorted. " _Upset_ doesn't begin to cover it. I haven't seen Mum that upset, since, well—since Percy."

Ron flinched.

Tonks winced in sympathy. "Well, this place should be safe to use for the time being. We renewed the wards and moved the Order out this morning. It should be safe for you, for now."

"How long will you be staying there?" Ginny asked.

"As long as we can," Harry said. "Which, with our luck, means not long."

"But probably just as long as we need," Hermione said.

Draco blinked, bemused.

Ron was rubbing behind his neck. "None of you've happened to find some toes lying around, have you?"

Pansy, Tonks, and Ginny stared at him.

"What?"

"I guess not," he muttered. "Had sort of a splinching accident, you see." He wiggled his foot at them.

"Oh, Merlin," Pansy muttered. "How many did you lose? And where do you think they are?"

"Two, exactly. Most likely out in the backyard."

"Two minutes," Tonks said in warning.

"I guess there isn't time to look," Ron said glumly.

"Even if we found them, Ron, I don't think we'd be able to reattach them," Hermione said, rubbing his arm.

"I just hate to think of them out there, all alone," Ron said, trying to sound serious, but he was trying not to laugh. Even Draco cracked a smile.

Tonks was tapping her watch. They all got up.

"Keep your coin close at all times, in case we need to contact each other," Hermione said as she hugged Ginny and Pansy together. They nodded. "Come visit us, if you can get away."

"Stay safe," Ginny whispered. She let her go and went to hug Ron and Harry next, and patted Draco awkwardly on the shoulder.

"Don't do anything stupid," she said half-jokingly, raising her brows.

Draco smiled thinly. "I won't."

They saw them to the door. Tonks Apparated them away on the front stoop. Hermione took a step forward away from the front door. The wood creaked underneath her. The massive portrait of Mrs. Black was curtained and dusty, but most importantly, silent. Tonks Apparated back within a few minutes and knocked on the door, as she couldn't Apparate within the house. They let her in, and she led them all carefully around the portrait and into the kitchen. Draco stared after the portrait curiously, wondering why they were treating it so carefully. He supposed it was a question for another time. He'd already been to Grimmauld Place before, but didn't remember coming by this part of the house. He had, in fact, but he had been unconscious at the time, and had spent the rest of his stay there by the back of the house on a higher floor.

"I'll send word through Pansy and Ginny if anyone's heading this way," Tonks said, setting her elbows on the counter and leaning forward. "Ring if you need anything. There's still food here, in the pantry, but not much. Keep an eye out for Kreacher. He's been sulking in his quarters for weeks because Mundungus came through again taking stuff to sell on the street. We thought he'd died but Remus found him sobbing in the pantry a few days ago."

"Is _that_ why I haven't seen that little bugger around?" Ron asked. "I thought he'd died, too."

"Kreacher comes and goes as he pleases, now that Sirius is gone and Harry hasn't been around," Tonks said. "And when I say go, the only place he ever goes to is his room. Just hides himself in there for days."

"Is this why I've never seen him before?" Draco asked. Potter nodded.

"You're lucky, too," Ron added. "He's a cantankerous little shit." He shrugged one shoulder. "He'd probably love you, though, considering your family background an all."

Draco frowned.

"You haven't met Mrs. Black, either," Hermione said. "She's a delight, too."

Draco looked at her questioningly.

"Sirius's mother," Potter explained. "She's a blood purity fanatic." His lip lifted at the corner. "She hates us three. I'll warn you now, don't make too many loud noises or she'll start shouting. She does that a lot. Her curtains come flying off and it's a bother to get her to settle down again."

"She probably wouldn't yell if she saw you, though." Ron added.

"Why didn't anyone tell me any of this before?" Draco asked, glancing uneasily at the corridor.

"Well, you were only here for a few days," Hermione offered after a short pause. "You were in your room for most of that time, and, well, you didn't have much reason to be going by the exit…"

Draco stood still. "That's true, I suppose."

Tonks patted them all on the back as she walked past them to get to the door.

"Kreacher won't be happy to find he hasn't got the house to himself. Try not to let him know what you're up to, or at least order him to not go about spilling your secrets. He's yours now, Harry—he'll have to listen to you."

When she had left, Harry immediately went for the stairs to the cellar.

"Where are you going?" Draco asked.

"I need to see Kreacher."

They hurried to join him, and crept down the stairs in the dark, wands held aloft, glowing with the power of their Lumos.

The cellar was damp and cold, with covered dusty old furniture pushed up against the wall. An enormous, ancient carpet took up the whole floor, so faded and covered in grime and dust that in the weak light they could see the dust rise and float around with every footstep. Boxes of all sizes lay strewn about, filled past their brims with all sorts of antiques and other assorted rubbish. Musty old sheets had been thrown over some of the pile to cover it. The rest was still let out a low whistle. The smell of mold was almost overbearing. It was nowhere near as messy, but it gave Draco a stark reminder of the Room of Requirement. He shuddered.

"That looks familiar," Weasley was saying, squinting at an uncovered box, where a large broken mantle clock was poking out from. He leaned in for a closer look, and let out a huff of a laugh. "Blimey. I reckon it's the same one. See the scratch marks on the paint? Remember how it tried to strangle me, Harry?"

"Shit," Potter replied, as he leaned in. "You're right. Don't go any closer."

Draco immediately turned to Hermione, his raised brow requesting explanation.

"A few years ago, we went through most of the clutter in this place and tried to clear out some space," she began, fanning away a plume of dust. "We found out too late that most of those objects were cursed."

Hermione pointed to an old brass goblet that glinted dully through its blanket of dust.

"That one's got some sort of tongue-locker curse on it. I couldn't talk right for days, even when Lupin did the counter curse."

Weasley nodded, frowning. "And it looks like Kreacher fished it out of the bins and has been holding onto it since."

"He sounds lovely," Draco said, taking a discrete step from the pathway, where the nearest box was perilously close to touching his robe.

"Oh, you'll see," Potter said, and taking one final displeased look at the mess, and continuing on to the only door in sight—there was a sliver of light underneath the bottom, indicating someone was inside.

The rest of them followed hesitantly, waiting with bated breath as Potter knocked on the door.

"Kreacher," he called through the door. "I've got to talk to you."

There was a long silence from the other side of the door. They waited impatiently.

"Maybe he's not there," Hermione suggested.

"Just go in and see," Ron said.

Harry shook his head, and knocked again.

"Kreacher," he said, and his voice was harder this time. "Come out and talk to me, please."

A full minute passed with no response. Ron sighed.

The door creaked open, and Kreacher stepped outside, shutting the door quickly behind him before they had a chance to see inside properly.

He looked exactly as unpleasant as he had been when they had seen him last, if not perhaps smelling a little fouler.

He bowed stiffly

"Master wishes to speak with Kreacher," he croaked, and before Harry could even respond, Kreacher's eyes had landed on Draco and widened into mini-moons nearly bulging out of his head. Draco stared back awkwardly.

Ignoring Harry completely now, Kreacher scuttled to stand before Draco now, and bowed.

"Young Draco, son of Lord Malfoy," he said, and it was disturbing how… _reverent_ his voice had become in an instant. "Kreacher did not know you was in the House of Black. If Kreacher had known, Kreacher would have cleaned, would have cooked to welcome the son of Mistress Narcissa, whom Kreacher remembers so fondly." He bowed again, and Draco remembered with a start that his mother indeed must have known Kreacher, that he must have been one of many House elves whom had waited on her and Tonks when they had visited when they were young.

"You've met before?" Harry asked.

Draco shook his head. "Never."

"Then how does he recognize you?" Weasley asked.

"I imagine the strong resemblance to my parents might be a clue," Draco replied drily, pointing to his hair.

"Young Draco looks so much like his father, Kreacher thought he had gone back in time, to when Lucius Malfoy was engaged to Mistress Narcissa," Kreacher confirmed, nodding emphatically.

Draco's face went grim, and Hermione touched his arm discretely.

"Kreacher," Harry said, and the House Elf turned, looking cross, to face him. "We're looking for Mundungus Fletcher. Have you seen—"

Kreacher made a loud sound of disgust, his thin, bony body curling into itself, his eyes darting around suspiciously.

"Kreacher does not like that name," Kreacher muttered in a low growl. "Kreacher does not like that man." He hurried to the piles of boxes and checked them nervously, snapping his fingers to magically procure an old sheet and threw it over an uncovered chest. He threw an angry, suspicious glance at them from over his shoulder.

"Why not?" Harry asked.

He began to mutter, his voice full of resentment.

"That dirty, smelly, _thieving_ man comes into this ancient and noble house and takes." Kreacher spat on the ground, his voice going lower and lower until it was entirely guttural. Hermione repressed a shudder. "Takes, and takes, and sells on the street what does not belong to him. He is good at thieving. Kreacher did not know for months. But Mistress Black's lace gloves were gone, and Kreacher sees Mundungus Fletcher in Knockturn Alley selling them for two sickles, when they was made custom for my Mistress, and cost ten galleons. Kreacher took them, and he hid them, but the thief still comes to take, and Kreacher tries to stop him."

Harry was frowning. "How much has he taken, Kreacher?"

"Many things—things that belong to Kreacher, and that belonged to his family." The House-Elf turned away from the boxes to face them again, his eyes glaring and hurt, staring at them shrewdly. "And now Kreacher thinks Potter and the Mudblood and the blood-traitor are here to take more of it." His eyes were glassy with tears of anger. "And Kreacher will not like it, no he won't, but Kreacher cannot say no to his new Master."

He was looking at Malfoy, and Harry knew he was wishing that he was his Master instead. Despite their tenuous history, Harry couldn't help but feel sorry for Kreacher.

He glanced at Ron and Hermione, knowing they felt it, too. Malfoy was harder to read, but Harry could feel his discomfort.

"We're not here to take anything away," he told Kreacher. "Keep it all. Do what you like with it, I don't care. I just had some questions for you."

Kreacher cocked his head at an angle, his old, hairy ears shifting. He stared harder at Harry, his great black eyes like polished glass beads.

"What is it Master wants?" He asked slowly.

"First—I don't want you calling my friends anything other than their names," Harry said.

Kreacher considered it for a moment, and then bowed.

"Kreacher will obey."

To their relief and shock, he didn't mutter rude things to himself.

"When we cleaned this place years ago, there was a locket," Harry began, and Kreacher froze. "It was silver, and had a serpent on it. We thought it was worthless and threw it away. But you kept it, didn't you?"

Kreacher nodded slowly. "Why is Master Potter looking for this locket?"

"We know," Harry said. "We know what it is. We know where you got it from, and how, and who you were with. We know about what you did." He pulled the fake locket from his pocket and showed it to Kreacher, who looked shellshocked.

He wavered where he stood, as if a ripple had gone through the room.

"Master Potter knows nothing," he croaked, blinking, not looking any of them in the eye.

"Kreacher," Harry said, more gently. "We know about the Horcruxes. We know Regulus switched out the locket with a fake." He reached into his pocket and pulled out the fake locket. Kreacher's eyes reluctantly landed on it. He began to shake.

"How did Master get that?" He asked, his posture so stiff and yet bent that it seemed like he was being pulled apart from two different directions. Hermione stepped forward, wanting to console him, but he edged away from her quickly.

"I went to that cave," Harry said. "I found it there. I thought you might know where the real locket is."

Kreacher swallowed.

"Kreacher doesn't know," he said hoarsely.

"Are you _sure_?" Ron asked.

"Kreacher _does not know!"_ The House Elf shrieked, pulling his ears down over his eyes, as if not wanting to hear any more. "Kreacher was glad to never see the cursed necklace again! Kreacher was glad to leave the fake in that cave, after the Dark Lord hurt his Master Regulus, Kreacher hoped never to see it again so he hides the real one for many years, and it gets lost."

Harry and Ron exchanged a grim look.

"Where did you hide it?" Hermione asked. "Do you remember?"

"Kreacher hid it in a jewelry box that once held his Mistress's things," Kreacher said, shaking his head, still covering his eyes with his ears. "And he took care of it and made sure no one came near. And the necklace would not have been lost if Master _Sirius_ did not decide to clean the house."

"So that was it, then," Ron said, almost in disgust.

"Why didn't you say anything?" Harry asked.

"Master Sirius knew cleaning the house and throwing things away makes Kreacher angry and upset," Kreacher said bitterly. "He forbid Kreacher from interfering. Kreacher hoped the locket would not be touched. Master Regulus _ordered_ Kreacher to keep it hidden, and Kreacher _failed."_

 _"_ Could've chosen a better hiding place," Ron muttered. Hermione elbowed him in the ribs. He shot her a look.

"You brought it back, though, didn't you?" Harry asked intently. He gestured to the boxes piled high. "Like all this stuff."

Kreacher nodded, a trace of pride in his countenance.

"Kreacher will not fail his Master Regulus twice," he said. "Kreacher went through the things meant to be thrown away, against Master Sirius's orders. Kreacher punished himself by slamming a door closed on his fingers, but he took the locket back and put it here with the other things he managed to save."

He went to a stack of boxes and fussed over them, wiping the dust off, making sure they were not missing anything.

"Then where is it now, Kreacher?" Harry asked. "We need it."

Kreacher didn't turn back to them. His shoulders had hunched.

"The thief comes, and takes it," he said, his old, croaking voice like gravel. "He takes it, when Kreacher is unaware. Kreacher went to him when he discovered it missing, but it was too late. Fletcher, stinking of drink, admits he sold it. He didn't remember who."

Hermione clutched Harry's arm. Kreacher was _crying._

"Kreacher failed his Master _twice,_ even when he tried to fix it," Kreacher said miserably. "And his Master Regulus died for nothing." He began to beat his bony fists against his temples. "Bad Kreacher, bad Kreacher, _bad Kreacher!"_

 _"_ _Don't!"_ Hermione cried. "Oh, Kreacher, don't! It wasn't your fault!"

Kreacher was past listening. He continued to strike himself in the head, muttering rapidly in self-hatred, and Hermione feared he would knock himself unconscious.

"Kreacher, _stop,_ " Harry ordered.

The House Elf froze, fists halting a mere inch from his skull. He had torn at his skin somehow, along what might have been his hairline, if he had any hair. Blood welled there, thick and bright, preparing to dribble downward.

"Hermione's right," Harry said. "It wasn't your fault. You did what you could. I'm sure Regulus would have been proud of you."

Kreacher gaped at him, his wrinkled, watery eyes wide in disbelief, which went wider still as Harry approached him and crouched low on the ground so that he matched Kreacher's height.

"I need to know where Fletcher is," he said urgently. "Where can I find him?"

Kreacher said nothing for a moment. Hermione was shocked to see a glimmer of respect in Kreacher's eye as he looked at who he had previously considered a disappointment of a Master.

"The stinking thief sells his stolen things in Knockturn Alley," he said at last. "In the darkened alleyways by the canal. He is not always there. Kreacher does not know where he lives. The thief hides in many places."

"Thanks, Kreacher," Harry said. He pushed the locket toward the House Elf, who froze again. "You can keep this."

"Kreacher does not want it," he said. Hermione could see the trauma in his eyes when he looked at it. No doubt he was revisiting that night in the cave, when his beloved Regulus had put his own life in risk to thwart Voldemort. But he hesitated.

"You don't have to take it if you don't want to," Harry said.

Kreacher reached out for it, and Harry dropped it into his palm. Despite it being a fake, it was still heavy.

"Kreacher will hide this one, too," he said. "Kreacher does not want to see it."

The moment was broken by a loud growl coming from Ron's stomach. They all looked at him. He placed a hand on his stomach, chagrined.

"Sorry."

Draco wanted to laugh.

"Let's go," Harry said, and started for the stairs.

Kreacher stood there, still clutching the locket in both hands, a struggle in his mind.

They had nearly reached the top of the stairs when they heard Kreacher scrambling up after them.

"What will Master Potter like for dinner?" He asked, slightly out of breath.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione blinked. Judging by their expressions, Draco surmised that this was highly unusual behavior for the Elf.

"Er, sorry?" Harry asked.

"Kreacher can start with soup," the House Elf said, "and then make stew, or whatever Master Potter fancies. But he will be needing to visit the market."

"Oh—" Harry had gone slightly red, unused to being waited on. "Soup and stew sounds fine. Thanks."

Kreacher nodded eagerly, and another wave of shock rippled over them.

"Someone tell me what just happened," Ron said, after Kreacher had Apparated away (presumably to the market) and they were clustered around the kitchen table, nearly at a loss for words.

"He's gone soft, apparently, judging by the looks on your faces," Draco said. "The way you looked, Potter, I almost thought he'd never waited on you before."

"That's the thing," Hermione said. "He hasn't. He hated Harry, and us, too, before today. He'd say awful things under his breath and wouldn't listen to Harry without throwing a tantrum first. That's what we were expecting today."

Draco leaned back on his heels. "Wow."

"I'm still reeling, myself," Harry said.

"I reckon it was because you gave him the fake," Ron said, crossing his arms. "That, and what you said about Regulus being proud of him anyway. Poor little bugger probably hasn't had a word of praise aimed at him in _years._ I guess that was all it took."

Hermione looked doubtful.

"Well, either way," Harry said, sitting down at the table. "We know what he have to do next. That's a start. It's a stretch, thinking that we'll find the locket easily, but it's a start."

Draco nodded, relieved.

"Well how are we going to get into Knockturn Alley?" Ron asked, yawning.

"Polyjuice," Hermione said.

Draco raised a brow.

"Where are we going to get that from?"

"We're not getting it from anyplace. Too dangerous. I'm going to make it," she said, a gleam in her eye.

At Draco's look of surprise, Harry grinned.

"I've had practice, after all." She was grinning now.

"And by practice, you mean…." Draco prompted.

"Remember in Second year, when the Basilisk was running around petrifying people left and right?" Ron asked. Draco nodded. "Well, Harry and I were sure it was you, and that you were the Heir of Slytherin. So sure, in fact, that we decided we had to find out at any cost. So we stole from Snape's ingredients stores and brewed our own Polyjuice Potion."

"There was a brief period where I was absent from classes," Hermione said. "I'm not sure you remember, as I told everyone I was sick. But the truth was, we had tried to impersonate Crabbe, Goyle, and Millicent Bullstrode. Except instead of using Millicent's hair, I accidentally used some of her cat's hair."

"Oh, Merlin," Draco muttered, and laughed. "Only you could make a Polyjuice Potion at twelve years old."

She blushed, smiling. "I may have turned myself into a cat, but at least it still worked."

"And what about you two?" Draco asked Harry and Ron.

"Well, it worked for us," Ron said. "We turned into Crabbe and Goyle and talked to you for a bit in your Common Room. This is off topic, but how the hell is yours fancier than ours?"

"I had nothing to do with it," Draco replied, frowning. "So you talked to me, then. What did you find out?"

"Nothing, aside from the fact that you _really_ wanted Hermione to be the next victim," Ron said, cocking a brow at Draco. Hermione gave him a look, and he relented. "I almost socked you in the eye for that. But we didn't get anything important out of that except for the knowledge that you _weren't_ the Heir."

"And then we started turning back into ourselves, so we had to run like hell," Harry added, grinning.

Draco frowned more deeply. "Fuck, I _do_ remember that. I'd wondered what the hell was up with those two, but only for a second. That could take all day."

Ron grinned. "I think I'm starting to like you, Malfoy. Never thought I'd hear myself say that, but it's true. You're funny when you're not being a prick."

"High praise," Draco said, rolling his eyes. "Thanks."

Though he had said that with a sarcastic infliction, inwardly, he felt a rush of pleasure roll over him. That was unexpected. He hadn't thought Weasley's acceptance was something that would ever make him chuffed, even if it was on a small scale. But it was strange. He had sensed it from the start. By intertwining himself with Hermione, he was butting into a small, close family that was as established as his own. He was the stranger. He was the new addition that they had too tread carefully around, trying to feel him out. It was strange, and unpleasant, sometimes, but it was worth it, if he got to feel like this, with the hope that he might one day truly be a part of it, too.

There was another thought he'd never thought he'd have. It made him pause.

 _Look how things are now. Is this what you really want?_ He asked himself.

The fear was still there—fear that somehow, he would fuck it all up. Fear that they were only messing with him, secretly taunting him behind his back, secretly still hating him and waiting for the right moment to pull out the knife and stick it through him.

But there was also a certainty that he hadn't felt in a while, like a little root inside him that curled hopefully upwards at the thought of doing something that _mattered,_ not something that hurt or destroyed, and building a better future for himself along the way.

 _Don't get ahead of yourself,_ the voice popped back up. _You've only just begun._

 **A/N:**

 **Sorry for the long wait! I've been busy but trying to chip away at this over time. Please review and let me know what you think.**


	3. The Set-Up

**This chapter takes place immediately after Chapter 2 ends.**

 **Three.**

The nightmare had been on the fringes of his subconscious for most of the night, growing heavier until his head ached. Kreacher had shocked the other three again by coming back with fresh ingredients and preparing food dutifully, serving it to them with a bow.

Potter's eyes had been wide, almost suspicious, but Hermione had smiled at the Elf and tried the soup and thanked him for it, said it was delicious. The rest of them, following her bravery, had tried the soup too. Weasley had muttered something about checking for poison, but Hermione had been right. The soup was delicious, and Kreacher was watching them anxiously, his face looking like that of a new elf, not cantankerous in the least but rather pleasant, and Draco caught Potter stealing glances at the Elf repeatedly as if he couldn't believe it, himself.

Aside from that, dinner had been a quiet affair. They had gone to bed after that. Hermione had sensed something was wrong with Draco, and once they were alone in his room and he'd closed the door behind them, she walked into him slowly and kissed him, her neck arching upwards to meet his lips.

"You'll be sleeping alone again?" She asked when they broke apart. His arms were around her waist. His head dropped low, he breathed her in.

"Yes."

"Shall I put wards on your door?"

A sharp pain pierced his temple then.

"Please."

They still had not been able to figure out how he'd gotten his wand back and left the Weasley's house all those weeks ago. That mystery sat heavy and dark on his mind. It terrified him.

"I'll be right here," she said in a low voice. She squeezed his arm. "If you need anything, you'll be able to open the door and shout for me if you have to, but you can't come out. I've put a sensor charm on it just in case."

He nodded again, watching her with heavy eyes, struck again by her compassion, her loveliness in the midst of his ruin.

She walked to the door and stood just outside of it; he followed as far as the doorframe. They gazed at each other for a moment.

"I've ruined everything," he whispered. "I'll never be able to take any of it back, will I?"

Something in her composure fractured—her features twisted in sorrow—for him, for Dumbledore, for Harry, for everything that had changed at the hands of the evil that plagued them.

She came forward, reached up and took his face in her hands.

"The best thing you can do is keep going," she said, her voice low and haunted. "Fight with us. You can't take it back—s"

His eyes closed.

"—But you can make it better," she finished. "You can help us end this."

"They'll never accept me," he said softly. "No matter what I do, I'll always be a Malfoy. I'll always have this mark on me."

Hermione's brows lifted in worry.

"Your name may be Malfoy but you're not like your family. You're here, and that's what matters. You deserve to be here."

Draco felt something break inside him. He hadn't known he'd needed that reassurance so badly at this particular moment, and his gratitude was overwhelming. He crushed her against him, stifling her gasp with his mouth, one hand on the nape of her neck. He pressed her against the doorframe, and she let out a little moan, her hands on his back, her lips warm and soft.

"Thank you," he whispered when they broke the kiss moments later, panting.

"I can't imagine what you're feeling after all this," she said. "But I want to help you heal from it."

He doubted he would ever heal, and he was right. What was to come and what was already in motion would destroy them, alter them further, but they weren't aware of it yet. At that moment their world was confined to Grimmauld Place, to each other, to their fear and their sorrow. Their desire. They would learn, as Harry had already learned through multiple tragedies, that one never really stopped healing, and that when one seemed to finally have done so, something fresh and new and rotten came up just in the nick of time to restart the whole game.

Draco ran his other hand through her hair, his kiss turning softer, remembering himself. He trailed his kisses along her cheek, her throat, his breath and his lips lingering there. Her eyes were closed, her body heated. She shivered as he pulled away and opened her eyes.

Draco sighed. His headache had faded, almost imperceptible but for the dull pounding in his temples. "We should get to sleep."

Hermione was smiling faintly, her eyes glinting in the low light. "Are you sure you don't want me in there with you tonight?"

He'd gone half-hard in an instant at her suggestion, but shook his head, trying to smile back. Like the loosening of a valve, her words, her kiss had released that tension inside of him. He found that dark presence in his mind farther removed. He thought he might be okay for the rest of the night.

He was wrong.

"You know any other time, there would be nothing I would better prefer," he said. "But not tonight."

She nodded and stepped back from the doorframe. The glow of the gas lamp in the hallway cast her in half-shadow.

"Goodnight, Draco," she said softly.

"Goodnight, love."

She smiled to herself and began to cast the ward on his room.

Her worried face was the last thing he saw before he closed the door and faced his empty room.

He'd dressed for bed, the sharpness in his temple receding and cresting like a wave trying to whittle down a rock.

He'd been in bed, wide awake and still as stone for the better part of three hours. The headache had finally receded and he was barely aware of it. It wasn't until three in the morning that sleep took hold of him so quickly and deeply that he might have been suspicious of other forces at play had he been allowed time to process it as it happened.

The nightmare had moved in like a dense, rolling fog. It had cloyed in his throat like a thick, bitter wine, almost choking him. It settled around him so naturally and subtly that when it started, he fully believed he was still awake, that time had lost meaning, and had forgotten his current circumstances.

He was in his own home, walking down the long corridor that led to the dining hall and the foyer. He could hear multiple voices echoing faintly at the end.

When was the last time he'd walked through here? He didn't have time to remember. His steps were long and hurried, a frigid sense of urgency in the space around him, clinging to him.

He stopped abruptly before the entrance to the dining hall. The doors loomed large. The Manor, usually bright inside, was dark.

He let out a shaky breath, steeling his nerve.

The doors to the dining hall opened before him.

There was a mass of people inside, all crowded around in a circle. When the doors opened, they all looked up instantaneously in his direction, their faces and figures hooded.

Dread gripped his spine.

"Enter," Draco," he heard the Dark Lord call.

Heart pounding, he obeyed.

He meant to look ahead only, but his eyes were restless and jumped from figure to figure in that staring, faceless crowd, seeking his mother and father. Any familiar face.

The Dark Lord was at the back of the group, the only one not wearing a mask besides him. He smiled at Draco, his thin, pale lips drawing back slowly, revealing sharp, yellowed teeth.

Draco knelt on one knee before him, bending his neck.

"My Lord."

"Rise, Draco."

He obeyed. The Dark Lord's eyes were as red and dark as freshly drawn blood. They gleamed wetly in the thin light. There was a curious shuffling sound behind him.

"Are you not excited, Draco?" The Dark Lord asked. He held his wand in both hands, his long weathered nails scraping against the wood. There were already several old, deeper scratches along the wand.

"I am, my Lord," Draco said, his voice void of infliction.

"Good, good," the Dark Lord said, beginning to walk towards the huddled group, who were staring at them silently. Draco followed.

"The gift is coming," the Dark Lord announced.

"The gift is coming," repeated the hooded figures from behind their masks. The Dark Lord faced Draco, smiling that ugly unnerving smile.

" _Your_ gift is coming, Draco. I confess I find myself impatient for it. You ought to be, too. You've earned it."

Was this a dream? Or a vision? Draco felt as though he'd been drugged. Horror gripped his mind, caging him inside it to where he watched it all play out, but was helpless to break free. His body moved on, his mouth spoke, but he was as disconnected from it as though he were watching it through a screen instead, or as if he were under an Imperio.

 _What's happening?_

Oblivious—or ignorant—to his distress, his outer shell bowed at the Dark Lord's words.

"I'll be honored with any gift my Lord gives me," he replied automatically. "Although I know I am unworthy."

This pleased the Dark Lord. He smiled again and looked at the others who watched, faceless.

"Make way."

They parted at once, splitting the group cleanly in half. The Dark Lord walked through the center, eyes straight, his followers bowing as he passed until he bridged the gap between both groups at the top. Draco stayed on the other end, closing the circle they formed.

A tense silence filled the room.

"Are you ready, Draco?" The Dark Lord asked.

Everyone stared.

His lips moved.

"Yes, my Lord."

The Dark Lord snapped his fingers, and a large sack materialized and dropped heavily onto the floor with a sickening sound that made him want to recoil for fear of splatter. It was writhing.

"The gift is coming," the Dark Lord said.

"The gift is coming," the others repeated.

 _What gift?_

The Dark Lord beckoned Draco forth.

"This is only for my benefit. The true gift is a ways off, yet. We'll save that for a better time. But for now…I want to see what you accomplished. Open it, Draco."

Draco stepped forward, pointed his wand at the moving mass. The material cut in half and dropped to the floor.

At first, he wasn't sure what he was seeing, but the realization hit him a solid second later. His skin rolled out in waves from gooseflesh.

Maggots.

A huge mass of maggots. So many, their movements were audible. A tiny, sickening series of squelches. Like dipping his fist into a vat of cooked pasta. A hideous, wet, writhing sound.

Underneath the blanket of thriving worms, Dumbledore's corpse lay.

Vomit rushed up his esophagus. He almost staggered. Both those old, dead eyes were open, staring at the sky.

They were all watching. He couldn't react.

 _Shouldn't react._

He had seen terrible things before, in circumstances not unlike this. He had seen his father participate in these meetings for years. Now, it was his turn—and he'd done this before, hadn't he?

How else would he have ended up here?

 _Serve. And obey._

Was that not what his father had told him so often as he'd been growing up?

 _Serve and obey. Do not fail him, and you will be successful._

 _Serve._

 _And die,_ that voice whispered inside him.

Regardless of whether it was a dream or not, as irrational as his reaction seemed, he didn't dare move. Too often growing up, he had seen that to betray one's feelings resulted in death or punishment. Especially considering his current company, it was a habit that was difficult to let go of.

He froze himself, willing his eyes to not water at the sight, the stench. His lips were clamped shut.

"Wonderful," the Dark Lord was saying. "Absolutely wonderful, Draco."

Dumbledore's eye was moving. Draco couldn't help it—he stepped back in alarm, his heart plummeting in the same moment as that milked-over blue eye fixed on him, void of emotion, void of life, but as he stared at it Draco could have sworn it was glaring at him.

 _He's still alive._

And then—

There was a sickening pop. The eye burst out of the socket, hanging by a nerve, and a surge of fat maggots appeared through the gaping hole, wriggling sickly, tumbling down onto Dumbledore's wasted, rotting cheek. More maggots crawled around in his long silver beard.

The Dark Lord sighed as if experiencing climax, and Draco awoke.

Vomit pushed at his lips, burning a trail through up his throat. He stumbled out of bed, almost tripping over his own legs, still half-asleep, but he made it to the joined bathroom and slammed the door shut.

As Hermione obliviously slept on across the hall, he violently emptied the contents of his stomach into the chamber pot, sweat dripping down his forehead, the Dark Lord's nauseating sigh replaying in his mind, his ominous words hanging over him. He stayed there, white-faced and unable to sleep for hours afterward.

* * *

Hermione awoke and stretched in her bed. She washed her face, brushed her teeth and dressed for the day. Her sleep had been dreamless and restful. She made her bed and left her curtains open, and exited her room.

When she had undone the ward on Draco's room, she knocked on the door.

"Come in," came Draco's voice, and she entered to find him pulling a jumper over a plain shirt.

"Good morning," he said as she sat on the edge of his cold, unslept in bed. She took note of that immediately and her gaze sharpened on him.

"I wasn't aware you owned any t-shirts," she said.

"I've got very few," he admitted. "At home, we always dress formally. The only t-shirts I own are meant for sleeping in." He turned to her. "I feel overdressed here."

"We're not going to judge you for what you wear if that's what you're thinking," she said.

"I wouldn't really care if anyone did," he said. "I was just thinking—it wouldn't be very practical if we had to run out again and I stick out like a sore thumb because I'm not in regular Muggle attire."

She frowned.

"That's a good point. Have you tried transfiguring some of your other shirts, then?"

He nodded. "I did two before you came in. I reckon I'll do the trousers later. What do you call those? Denim, was it?"

"Yes. Jeans also works." She pointed her wand at a pair of trousers he had lying on the bed and muttered something. They transformed as they both watched, and Draco picked them up.

"Have you ever worn jeans before?" She asked.

"No," he said and pulled them on over his boxers. "They're quite stiff."

"That's normal," she said. "They were originally created for Muggles who do hard labor. Meant to withstand a lot of wear, and the like, but everyone wears them now."

"Interesting." He looked down at himself. "Thanks. It's a good fit."

They were a _great_ fit. Hermione eyed him appreciatively, but said no more, knowing he was skirting around what she wanted to ask.

Draco was raising and bending his legs at the knee as if marching in place, getting used to the feel of the fabric, it's unusual toughness, so different from the finer fabrics he usually wore. She suppressed a giggle and watched.

"Did you sleep well?" She asked instead.

He stopped.

"Not at all."

"What happened?"

"Another nightmare," he said. "Nothing new."

She was about to ask what it was about when he came forth and held out his hand. She saw the remnants of that nightmare in shrouds around him, shadowing around his eyes.

"I don't want to talk about it," he said. "Please. Not now."

She hesitated and nodded. She took his hand, and they left for the kitchen.

* * *

Potter and Weasley were already downstairs. Weasley was a little more than half-asleep at the table. Potter was fidgeting with the Snitch Dumbledore had bequeathed him.

"Anything?" Hermione asked as she and Draco approached the table.

Potter shook his head and handed it to her.

"That's all it does," he said, pointing to the inscription.

 _I open at the close._

"Morning, sunshine," Draco said to Weasley as he sat down. His eyes were dry and his body a little sluggish, perhaps rebelling against him for not having slept much, if at all the night before. Several steaming cups of tea on saucers appeared all around the table, one for each of them. He took his and drank from it, scalding his tongue and not caring.

Weasley opened his eyes reluctantly.

"Kreacher's making breakfast."

"Did you sleep as badly as I did?" Draco asked him.

"I slept fine," Weasley said. "I'm not an early riser, that's all."

He almost fell backward out of his chair when Kreacher Apparated in and snapped his fingers to usher in breakfast

The dinner Kreacher had made them the night before had been good—great, even. But perhaps it had been a ruse to let their guards down for a pinch of poison, perhaps. That was Harry and Ron's initial thought. Neither said it out loud but they confirmed it with a glance at each other, and Hermione, knowing and sensing this, sent them a ' _don't be daft'_ look of her own, and followed Draco by starting to eat her own.

"This is delicious, Kreacher," Hermione said, beaming at the elf.

Kreacher approached the table, and despite Hermione's praise, they still caught themselves a little tense as the elf began to speak, waiting for him to utter his usual hateful mutterings.

"Kreacher is glad the friend of Master is liking the food," he said, and through his croaking voice, they could detect no sarcasm or resentment. Hermione smiled at the elf again.

"Yeah, Kreacher, this is great," Harry added around a mouthful of food. "Thanks."

Kreacher simply bowed. As he did so, they caught a flash of the chain of the fake locket underneath his tattered tunic.

Weasley looked at them and then poked at his food with his fork, slightly suspicious. Hermione elbowed him and he made a face, waiting a minute more, staring at Draco to see if he'd had any reaction to the food.

Draco only raised a brow at him.

Potter was still eating his eggs. The elf had left the kitchen briefly, muttering under his breath, but it was not the hateful, resentful sort of muttering they were used to from him. It was the thoughtful kind as if he were composing a list of things to do out loud.

They ate busily, and it was Draco who was first to notice that the kitchen was cleaner than it had been the night before.

The windows, which had been covered both with heavy, ancient drapes and a thick layer of dust, were now open and dust-free. The floor, which had been clean but unswept, now gleamed. The wood burner and the sink were tidy; a stack of dried dishes had been put off to the side, waiting to be tucked away into the cabinet.

Potter had followed his gaze and noticed the difference.

"The place looks almost…nice," he said, looking around himself as if he'd suddenly been transported to a different location without knowing.

"This must have been a beautiful house, once," Hermione agreed. "I understand why Kreacher would want to hang onto as much of it as he could, even if all that stuff we saw downstairs is never going to be used again. It belonged to his family."

Draco barely remembered it from his youth, the few times he had been brought over as a child to meet his relatives before his mother had burnt their names off the family tapestry that hung in her living room. He had been so young, then. Had he met Regulus before? Or even Sirius Black? They would have been quite a bit older than him, then. Tonks had been closer to his age, and he hardly remembered her.

* * *

Harry had looked away and back down at his plate, busying himself with finishing his meal. Hermione's words had brought up so many questions about Sirius—what had it been like, to grow up here? Had his parents ever visited? What had his family been like, when they were all alive? What would it have been like had Sirius never died, and Harry been allowed to move in here with him, finally with some semblance of a real family?

His eyes had grown a bit wet—he blinked and cut a chunk of roasted potato into three pieces.

Nobody else noticed, thankfully.

"What's the plan for today, then?" Ron was asking.

"Well," Hermione said after a drink of pumpkin juice, "we're going to need Polyjuice Potion. Quite a bit of it, actually. We need to get supplies for that, preferably from Hogwarts."

"We can't just go into Diagon Alley?" Potter asked.

"The risk is too great," she said. "We can try disguise spells and cloaks to hide, but in the event that there's higher security, we need to see about other options first before we go in headfirst."

"Great," Weasley said. "So how are we going to get into Hogwarts now?"

"We'd have to speak to McGonagall," Draco said. "How can we contact her? We haven't got any owls here."

"I'll ask Pansy and Ginny," Hermione said, taking the charmed galleon out from her pocket. She pressed it hard between her fingers, and sent her question through with only a though, watching the words etch themselves into the gold of the coin and then disappear immediately after:

 _We need to speak to McGonagall. Where is she?_

She'd expected to have to wait for their reply, but fumbled and nearly dropped it when the coin flashed hot in her palm almost a second later.

 _McGonagall on her way to see you. Be ready._

Her eyes widened.

"McGonagall's already on her way here," she said, just as there was a loud CRACK by the front door, followed by a second's pause, and then a rap on the door.

They almost jumped back in surprise as Kreacher appeared at Harry's side with another loud CRACK.

"Kreacher sees Minerva McGonagall waiting outside," he said. "Will Master be wanting her visit?"

"Yeah, of course," Harry said, grabbing his napkin to mop at the pumpkin juice he'd spilled upon the first notice of Apparition. Kreacher snapped his fingers to clear the mess and Apparated away again.

They all looked at each other.

"Holy shit," Ron muttered, "If I wasn't awake before I am now."

"That was faster than I thought it'd be," Harry said, nodding.

Draco frowned. "I wonder why."

There was no more time to continue wondering, as the esteemed Professor herself was led into the kitchen by Kreacher, who announced her arrival as she eyed him warily. She'd spent enough time at Grimmauld Place to be familiar with Kreacher, and was likely wondering about his sudden reversal in attitude. Harry supposed she might ask, but there were more pressing matters at hand.

"It's good to see you're all safe," she said, her slight Scottish accent so familiar and refreshing that Harry fought the sudden urge to smile.

Harry invited her to sit, half-expecting her to decline and stay standing, as she often did, but she accepted and sat opposite him at the table.

"You, too, Professor. We worried about everyone after we left."

"There is not much need to worry," she said. "There has been little damage."

She turned to Weasley.

"Your sister told me about your foot," she said. "Is it healed? I can call for a Healer."

Ron shook his head. "Hermione healed it—and the fewer people that know we're here, the better."

"Good." She looked at each of them squarely in the eye. "After what happened at the wedding, we must be more careful about who we trust with our secrets. I'm sure you were told about why the wards were broken around your home?" She asked, looking at Ron.

They nodded.

"Then I suggest that wherever you go from here, whatever you do, you tell _no one."_

Ron opened his mouth.

"Not even your sister. Or your best friend," she added, looking at Draco. "I know they are trustworthy. They didn't reveal you staying here to me. I only came here to inspect the wards at Arthur's suggestion, and when your sister and Miss Parkinson heard, I could tell by the look in their eye I would find something here. And as it's been for the past six years, whenever I get a feeling like that, it's usually you three behind it," she said, a rare smile turning her lips.

"Is Grimmauld Place at risk, then, Professor?" Hermione asked.

"It's highly unlikely for now, but I can't guarantee anything," McGonagall said. "Even if they knew you were hiding here, they would have to locate it first, and seeing as the person who betrayed us at the Burrow is a notorious drunkard who had to be let in here more than half of the time for not remembering the password—" her tone had grown sharp with dislike here. She paused and cleared her throat. "Be prepared for anything. It may happen, it may not. We have been searching for him since the wedding but he knows we're looking, and evades us at every turn. We must get him before an enemy does, and extracts more secrets from him."

"But Ginny and Pansy would never rat us out like that," Ron insisted.

"I know they wouldn't," McGonagall said. "But under duress, even the most loyal and the strongest minds can be broken or bent. If the enemy becomes aware of any emotional ties any of you might have to someone else, they will try to exploit it. I imagine you would want to prevent that in any way possible."

Ron had gone pale.

"Professor," Harry cut in. "We need access to Hogwarts."

They were prepared for her hesitation, and for a load of questions, or a refusal. Instead, she simply nodded slightly, as though she had been expecting it, and stood from her seat.

"Will it take long?"

"No," Hermione said, surreptitiously checking her pocket for the folded piece of parchment she'd tucked inside. "We know what we're after."

* * *

After McGonagall had Apparated them in through her office in groups of two, she had instructed them to be ready and waiting back in her office within an hour, and she would come to Apparate them back to Grimmauld Place. They'd nodded, and she'd Apparated away again without a sound.

It was strange to be back inside Hogwarts so soon. Somehow, Hermione had held the previously unknown assumption that they would never see its insides again, yet there they stood, alone and small in the wake of the castle's size. They peered anxiously around themselves as they passed through long corridors, almost expecting to run into hordes of other students or even one of their professors, but they encountered nothing.

"I feel like Filch is going to come out at any second and scare the living shit out of us," Ron muttered, his eyes sweeping the space around them.

"He's probably on holiday since there are no students," Hermione said.

 _And there likely won't be for a long while._

Her stomach sank.

They climbed down into the dungeons, taking turns and following the familiar path to the Potions classroom they had taken countless times before when things had been so different.

The classroom was unlocked, thankfully. Draco closed the door behind them.

There were still cauldrons set up at every workbench. The seats were all pushed in, the curtains to the tiny, dingy windows drawn. Gone were the luxurious scents of Slughorn's incenses that they'd grown accustomed to over the year. Now, the room only had its usual musk of cold and mold, which they remembered from Snape's years as Potions Master.

Ron was the first to reach the storeroom. "What do we need?"

"I've got a list," Hermione said and began to read from it. "Lacewing flies, beetroot powder, salamander blood—"

"One thing at a time, please," Harry said, as he and Ron started to go down the aisles of the storeroom, searching for the first of many ingredients.

"How do you even remember all that?" Ron asked.

Hermione shrugged. "It just stayed with me. Hopefully, there aren't too many errors, or we will have to take a trip into Diagon Alley. I found the ingredients list in one of my books, but it didn't have the brewing instructions." She bit her lip. "We'll have to go to the library to look it up."

"One thing at a time," Harry said, and she smiled.

"Some more light might be nice," Ron called from the farther end.

Draco raised his wand. "Lumos maxima."

Suddenly it was easier to see. Light glinted off the jars around them, making them squint a little as they looked around.

"Thanks," Ron said rather awkwardly and continued his search.

"Here's the flies," Harry said, handing the bottle to Hermione. She inspected the label, nodded, and stored it carefully inside her bag.

"I'll have to be really careful with this from now on," she said, more to herself than to anyone else.

Ron came with another jar next, and after it received Hermione's approval, the jar was placed gently in her bag and she sent him off to find the next item on the list.

It really was a long list, Draco mused, ten minutes later when his arms were aching from holding his _Lumos_ maxima up high enough so that both Potter and Weasley could reap its benefits. He wondered at why they were going to the trouble of actually searching for every ingredient when a simple _Accio_ might do the trick easily enough, but in a crowded store room like this, there was bound to be a few collisions, and cleanup duty wasn't something they really had time for.

He glanced around the storeroom again, fighting back a shiver. It was here, no less than two months ago, that this classroom had been full of students carefully brewing potions. In this very storeroom heh had encountered Hermione (then merely _Granger—_ how different everything was now!) seeing him at the door and shattering some glass vials. He had been on the verge of turning away and leaving, mindful of the flash of fright in her eyes, but Slughorn had asked him to help her, and he had. He remembered the wordless look of surprise and wariness on her face as she accepted one of the unbroken vials back. He remembered her beautiful, half-illuminated face, how soft and dark her hair looked. He remembered how badly he had craved to kiss her then—and how she had gone away immediately after, muttering a quiet 'thank you' as she passed.

He glanced at her from the corner of his eye, and with a jump in his stomach, realized she was doing the same. She was thinking of it, too. He felt his ears warm.

Had she sensed how he'd wanted to kiss her then?

He had the urge to do it now.

If only Potter and Weasley weren't there…

He would take that list from her hands and put it in his pocket. He would press her into the cold wall and warm her with his heat, brush his lips against her neck—he could picture the way her lips would part—he would kiss her, dispel his Lumos Maxima so they wouldn't be bothered, so he could explore her in the dark.

He started slightly as she moved against him briefly, placing another jar into the seemingly bottomless depths of her bag. Draco realized he had a semi erection, and flushing, turned away from the others and pretended to be suddenly interested in what the jars behind him contained. He flexed the muscles of his upper thighs, willing it to go away quickly, and switched his wand to his other hand.

She appeared to not have noticed, and he was thankful for that.

When they'd gotten the last ingredient, Hermione sighed satisfactorily and folded the piece of parchment up, stuffed it into her bag, and closed it securely.

"That's all?" Ron asked.

"That's all." She peered at the doorway past Draco, although knowing they were alone in the castle. "We should go. I keep feeling like Snape's going to walk in at any—"

The words died in her throat as Professor Snape appeared in the doorway, casting a shadow over them.

"Find everything you need?" came his sarcastic, toneless drawl.

Hermione clutched at her bag, heart beating wildly. Snape's cold eyes tracked the movement of her hand.

"Erm, Professor…"

The barest hint of a smirk lifted his lip.

"Finally lost your tongue, Miss Granger?"

Hermione went red and found she could barely look him in the eye. The embarrassment of him catching her and Draco snogging not too long ago was still fresh.

"What are you doing here?" Harry asked.

"This is _my_ classroom you are in, Potter," Snape said. "Imagine my ire when I received a letter an hour ago from McGonagall letting me know I was to have… _visitors…_ to my classroom, and that I was to let them plunder my stores."

"Technically, aren't these Slughorn's stores now?" Ron asked.

Snape stared at him.

"Slughorn may have been teaching Potions," he said slowly, "but these have always been my stores. _I_ look after them, and it's me who has to restock when students take to thieving."

"Well, the shops were all closed," Ron said, withering into silence as Snape glared at him.

"Each and every item that comes into this room to be stored is tracked down and bought from a range of stores, some of them not in this country, and endures an excruciating customs process to be delivered safely to this classroom. I weigh every ounce, I label every bottle, **I** keep an accurate inventory of every ingredient in this room. I have never once allowed students to stroll in here and take things at their leisure…"

His eyes found Harry's.

"Until you came along."

"Professor McGonagall gave us permission," Harry said coolly.

"Because she knew if you had asked me, I would have turned you out to the streets," Snape replied scathingly. "It isn't my problem that you're fugitives who can't be seen in public."

He looked back at Hermione, who had regained her composure.

"What did you take? You have a list, of course," he said, though he had never seen it. He held out his hand to her. "Give it to me."

Hermione glared back at him. Harry and Ron had gone tense behind her as if they expected Snape to call in some Aurors to take them away, but she knew better. She opened her bag and withdrew the parchment, eliciting some clinking sounds within from the glass jars. Snape narrowed his eyes at her.

She handed him the list.

He scanned it quickly, and before he'd even seen half of it, he lowered his arm and fixed her with a long stare.

"Polyjuice potion."

No one said anything.

"One might wonder what you would be making Polyjuice for."

Again, they were silent.

It was remarkable, Hermione thought. Years had passed, and yet, when standing under his scrutiny, she always felt like she was her eleven-year-old self again, small and nervous and unaccustomed to his caustic behavior.

"Practice," she said at last, and Ron and Harry barely managed to contain their explosive, unanticipated snickers with coughs.

She glanced at Draco. He was hiding a smile.

Snape only stared at her.

"Get. _Out_."

* * *

Ron let his laughter loose the second Snape had slammed the door behind them.

"Blimey, Hermione," he said, once it had died down. "You've got nerve."

"He almost had fire in his eyes," Draco said. They had begun to walk down the corridor. "Talk about bad timing…"

"Are we ready to go?" Harry asked.

"No," Hermione said. "I forgot to swipe a cauldron from the classroom. We'll need one, and some vials or more cups, something to stir with, and the book with the recipe for Polyjuice."

"Reckon we can go back in and ask Snape for a cauldron, too?" Draco asked. Ron let out half a laugh, check himself, and looked at Draco curiously.

"I don't remember you being so funny, Malfoy," he said.

"I think that's because I used it to be an ass more than anything else," Draco said, looking just as awkward.

"Ah, right."

"Okay," Harry said, and they all stopped walking. "Ron and I'll go get the book from the library."

"It's in the Restricted Section," Hermione warned them. "You'll have to take it off its chains."

"As long as it doesn't scream, it should be no problem," Harry said, remembering the cursed book that had screamed shrilly upon being opened when he had snuck into the Restricted Section in first year.

"At least Pince isn't there," Ron said, sounding relieved. "You saw how mad Snape was. Can you imagine Pince's reaction if she found us in the Restricted Section trying to take a book?"

Harry shook his head.

"Rather not." He looked at Hermione and Draco.

"We'll get the rest," Hermione said before he could ask.

"Alright. We'll meet back at the grand doors in…" he looked at the watch Mrs. Weasley had given him on his last birthday. "Thirty-five minutes."

"I think we can scrounge up some vials and a ladle of some sort in the kitchens," Hermione told Draco, so they headed down there.

* * *

It was odd for Draco to see the kitchen so empty. He was so used to hearing and seeing the bustling elves toiling merrily at their work, that to find the kitchens so silent and empty was haunting, almost. He fought back a shiver.

The sheer amount of cabinets in the walls made them balk. Hermione raised her wand and was about to utter an Accio when a squeak from behind made them jump.

They whirled around, Hermione with her wand drawn and ready to attack.

They found Dobby behind them, looking confused.

"Dobby, you scared us," Hermione said, sighing, lowering her arm.

"Dobby apologizes," the House Elf said. He was staring at Draco as he spoke. "Dobby was not expecting visitors in the kitchen for some time."

"Hullo, Dobby," Draco said, not knowing what reaction he should expect from the House Elf, who had undoubtedly known that he had committed perhaps the largest crime in the school's history nearly a month before.

"Dobby thinks he sees ghosts," Dobby said. "First, he thinks he sees Dumbledore in his office, now he sees Draco Malfoy in the kitchens. Poor Dobby is grieving and does not know what to think."

"You saw Dumbledore?" Hermione asked sharply.

"Dobby _thinks_ he sees Dumbledore," Dobby said, shaking his head as if that might clear his confusion. "Dobby did not see, but heard what Draco Malfoy does to Albus Dumbledore, and Dobby was very sad indeed. Dobby though his former Master had changed."

His hand came up, and Hermione saw with a jolt of fear that his fingers were poised to snap—would he turn Draco in?

"Dobby—" Draco started.

"—And then Dobby is grieving in his room after the students have gone home, and there is no need to cook, and McGonagall comes to see Dobby, and shows him a memory of Draco Malfoy and Pansy Weasley taking Truth potion and saying he did not mean to do it."

Dobby's huge blue eyes were fixed on Draco.

"Dobby hears Draco Malfoy say he was being threatened, and he had no choice, and that Dumbledore asks him to do it," Dobby said. "And McGonagall tells Dobby this is true."

"She's right," Draco said. "It's all the truth. I told him what was happening. I tried to turn myself in. He was dying—he was ill, somehow, and he was in pain. He wanted me to, even when I said I wouldn't."

Dobby's eyes were swimming with tears.

"It's true, Dobby," Hermione said, fighting the sadness that thickened her tongue. "Draco is helping us, now, and we're helping Harry. He's on our side."

Dobby finally looked away from Draco to see Hermione, the truth in her eyes. His arm slowly lowered back down to his side.

"You are helping Harry Potter?" Dobby asked, looking at Draco again.

Draco nodded. "To the end."

He hadn't realized those were the words that were going to come out. He flushed a little, hearing them again in his head. But it was true—he wouldn't stop until it was over.

Dobby rubbed at his eyes and blew his nose.

"Dobby is very glad to hear it," he said. "And Dobby will do what he can to help Harry Potter and his friends."

Draco opened his mouth to argue. _I'm not his friend_. But that was a dumb technicality and they were losing time.

"Speaking of that," Hermione said, "you wouldn't happen to have any cauldrons here, would you?"

"No, but Dobby can go to the Potions class and take one!"

"No, no, no," Hermione and Draco said together.

"We'll find one somewhere," Hermione said. "Do you have any flasks, then? Anything we can stir with?"

"Yes, Dobby may supply many things!" The House Elf cried. Hermione consulted her list and read items off one by one, and Dobby happily summoned them.

"Where is Harry Potter and Ron Weasley?" Dobby asked as they exited the kitchen some minutes later. Draco helped Hermione safely tuck their wares away into her bag.

"In the library, trying to steal a book." Hermione smiled. "I'm sure they'd be happy to see you. They might even need some help."

She could picture them now, trying to navigate through the intricate mess that was the Restricted Section.

"Then Dobby shall go help them!"

"Ok, then we'll see you later," Hermione said, and the House Elf Apparated away.

"Let's go upstairs," Draco said. "To the Room of Requirement."

"Why?" Hermione asked, then realization dawned on her face. "Oh, are there cauldrons there?"

"Plenty," Draco said, "thought it might take us a while to find one that isn't a ruined wreck."

Draco glanced at her bag.

"Is that heavy? Here, let me carry it."

"It's fine," Hermione said, though she blushed at the gesture. He watched her, charmed. "Pansy had it made so that it's weightless no matter what I put into it, because she knows how heavy my schoolbags get. I could hold a dragon in here if I wanted to, though I certainly wouldn't try."

"That must've come in handy," he said, raising his brows. "I remember it was particularly bad in third year. You seemed like you were carrying the contents of the school library in your bag. I remember you were late to every class because you'd show up out of nowhere and nobody had ever seen you come in."

Hermione grinned.

"I was never late."

He frowned. "Yes, you were. I specifically remember a few instances where I was bored enough to watch the doors as everyone came in for some classes we had together, and I never saw you until later, when class had already begun." He paused, and she was still grinning. "But knowing you, there's probably something crucial I'm missing." He smiled back. "Go on, what is it? Were you wearing Potter's Invisibility cloak?"

"Not quite," Hermione said. "You see, in third year I took about six classes, which meant a few schedule conflicts…"

They began the climb up the stairs.

* * *

They were out of breath and sore when they reached the fifth floor. Hermione had finished the recounting of her experience with the Time Turner, and Draco was still trying to wrap his mind around it.

"So that's why they never found that Hippogriff?"

"Yes," she said. "He's safe and secure somewhere out there."

Draco rubbed at his forearm absently. The scar had faded to a thin, silvery sliver on his skin. "I hope he's having the time of his life. I wish I hadn't been so rotten to it."

Hermione smiled bitterly, wondering how Buckbeak was faring without Sirius. Was he free, now? Or had Hagrid found him another home?

"I'm sure he's fine," she said. "Although there were lots of us who were glad you were taught a lesson."

"Would've been nicer if I'd actually _learned_ that lesson."

"Better late than never," she said coyly.

He shrugged.

"Still, a Time-Turner," he mused as they wound their way through more corridors. "That's really something."

"Sometimes I think I could go through it all again," Hermione said. "Take extra classes, bend time."

"But?" Draco prompted.

"It got tiring after a while," she admitted. "Having to run around and pretend I'd been there all along, gaslighting Ron, because he was always the first to notice when I'd suddenly appear, and I felt bad, but I had to keep the secret. He wasn't very pleased with me when I finally told him the truth."

"I'm sure you'd manage it just as well as you did then," Draco said.

"Even if I made up my mind and went through with it, it isn't possible anymore," Hermione said. "All the Time-Turners were destroyed when we broke into the Department of Mysteries a few years ago."

Draco, who had known exactly what he would have done with a Time-Turner if he ever got the chance, blinked.

"All of them?"

She nodded, wincing. "It was my fault. The Death Eaters were coming after us. There wasn't much time to think straight. I knocked over a lot of shelves to block them from our path. A lot of other things were destroyed, but I saw all the Time-Turners smash up into bits. Prophecies were lost, too."

It smarted to think about. Sure, she had bought her friends time to run away, but how much had she ruined in the process? Those prophecies in their glass orbs had chilled her the moment she laid eyes on them, remembering her dislike of Professor Trelawny. When the glass Harry had taken had smashed, she and the others had heard the voice rise from within, and Hermione had heard the unmistakable shaky tones of the Professor whom she'd written off so long before.

 _'_ _Neither can live while the other survives,'_

"What's that?" Draco asked, and Hermione started.

"Did I say that out loud?"

"Yes." He was looking at her strangely. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, I think so," she said. "I got lost in thought."

"The Prophecy talk had something to do with it, I suppose."

She nodded and hesitated. "Do you believe in Divination?"

"I do." She looked surprised. "I know _you_ don't. I heard you walked out of Trelawney's class in third year. That was quite the hot gossip for some time."

"I never pictured you as a gossip," Hermione said, raising a brow.

"And I never thought Hermione Granger would ever walk out of a class," he replied.

"It just seems so…arbitrary to me," Hermione said. "All we did was look inside teacups and crystal balls. Trelawney would see the Grim in every class just to rile everyone up! She was torturing Harry with it. You see what you want to see."

"Anyone can learn Divination," Draco said. "But not everybody is a Seer."

"You think there's a distinction between the two?"

She half expected him to look at her with surprise that she didn't know the difference, as Ron or maybe even Harry might. Instead, he only shrugged.

"Oh, of course," he said as they turned into another corridor. "Divination shows you only glimpses. Symbols, like the Grim, or the Claw, a seed, etc. You're left to interpret it as best as you can. It's terribly vague. Seeing shows you things a little more clearly. It's not a trick you can learn, like swishing your tea leaves in just the right manner."

Hermione snorted.

"People are born with the ability to See," he continued. "No tea leaves. No crystal balls. It's eerie, really. It just happens."

"You sound like you've had some experience with it."

"My family tree is dotted with Seers," he explained. "I've had Great-Great Grandmothers and Great-Aunts who had the Seeing eye. I didn't know them, but my mother did, and she said she saw them deliver prophecies."

"Like what?"

"She'd never tell me," Draco said. "I'd ask and she wouldn't say a word. The only thing she ever told me was that one of the prophecies was about me, but I'll never know what it was."

Hermione frowned.

They had finally reached the dead-end hall. They approached it, and Draco followed the ritual to summon the door. When it appeared, he opened it and waited for Hermione to enter first. He followed her inside, hearing her gasp of amazement.

" _Oh_."

It was all just as he'd left it. The sprawling mass of rubbish and curious artifacts. The dust floating thickly in the air. The high, high windows letting in thick streams of light.

"I didn't know it was like this," Hermione said, turning round in a slow circle, her eyes dazed with the sheer amount of objects crammed in the space around them. Draco watched, secretly amused.

"You've never seen this room?" He asked.

"No. Harry has, he's mentioned it a few times, but I've only ever seen the room where Dumbledore's Army practiced, the room I snuck in after you, and—well, the study room where you almost found me out."

He winced. It was still very much a vivid memory. It stung to remember, but not as much as the pain he had probably caused her.

There was a rustling sound as the room around them changed, and it was back. The plain, smallish room that he had cornered her in, inspected the contents of her bag and wrapped his hands around her throat when he'd been overcome by fury.

He started, felt his face drain of color, staring at the spot on the wall where it'd happened. He had lost control of himself. He'd turned into a monster.

His eyes wouldn't look away from that wall. His hands had gone cold. He didn't know if it was the Room itself or some random creature lurking around but her could hear some faint choking sounds. Something bumped against his foot, and he looked down.

It was a green apple with a bite taken out of it.

Something clutched at his mind.

 _Monster._ Red flashed through his mind.

He staggered backward.

 _"_ _Draco."_

Her hand was on his arm, pleading for him to look away. It took him a second, but he managed it, and her hands reached upwards and cupped his face, her eyes boring into his, sharing the memory, the fear.

His hands connected with hers.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

What kind of monster had he been, that he had succumbed to that rage so easily, over something so small?

"We're over it," she was repeating slowly. "It's over. You are forgiven."

He nodded faintly. She kissed him.

"You are not the same Draco Malfoy that did that. I wouldn't have stood by your side if you were."

Draco nodded again and kissed her back firmly. The room slowly melted away.

When they broke apart, they were back in the mess of the hidden room. Hermione pushed her hair from her face and sighed.

"Are you okay?" He asked.

"I'm more worried about you," she said. "but I'm fine."

"I don't know why I reacted like that," he said, scrubbing his face with his palm. "I know we're over it. I know. I think the dream from last night has me on edge, but worse than usual."

She took his hand and squeezed it.

 _You are forgiven,_ her eyes seemed to say. I _t's in the past._

"I'm okay," he said.

She squeezed his hand again.

"Right," she said and stepped forward. "This was where you—?"

"Yes. Way off towards the back of this place."

"You said you'd fixed the Vanishing cabinet?" She asked, frowning.

"Yes. I turned it into a portal of sorts, to transport the Death Eaters from Borgin and Burke's to here."

Hermione was looking at him, frowning.

"Is it still active?"

He went still.

"Most likely, yes."

They rushed forward at the same moment, but since Hermione didn't know the way to it, Draco went ahead and remembered the path he'd cleared out among the rubbish, helping Hermione over the more difficult obstacles, his heart pounding all the while.

Suppose the others had remembered the cabinet, too, and were planning to use it again without him? What if they'd done it already?

 _Doubtful_ , a rational voice whispered inside him. _If there'd been another infiltration, we would have heard of it by now. They would have thought I was behind it, and they would have questioned me again._

He clung to that thought desperately.

It took several minutes, but when they found the cabinet, it felt like only seconds had passed. It stood proudly, old and weathered but still gleaming along some of its silver filigree that had not been tarnished yet. Its door was still ajar, and Draco shuddered to see it that way, half expecting a gloved hand to reach out and pull him in by his cloak.

Hermione raised her wand, and the door opened all the way, as if she'd had the same exact thought.

It was empty.

"Shall I?" She asked, not taking her eyes off the cabinet. There was a sense of malevolence around it that Draco had never noticed before. Was it merely the memory of the foulness that cabinet had carried within, or was it all the negative energy he had put into it with every hateful, reluctant hour he had spent to fix it?

His mind flashed back to the little corpse of the dead little bird, mangled and bloody.

"No," he heard himself say. "I'll do it."

She nodded.

He raised his wand.

"Incendio."

Flames roared to life and wrapped around the cabinet.

Hermione stepped back. The heat was already overbearing. She held her wand out, ready to contain the fire to destroy only the cabinet, anticipating a spark to fly, and then chaos. She glanced nervously around the room.

 _A fire would spread very easily in here._

Draco's face was intent He seemed almost in a trance. His eyes reflected the bright orange of the fire as cabinet began to creak and groan and pop, buckling in on itself, sparks flying upwards but not outwards. He wasn't blinking. She almost called to him, a thread of fear tugging at her tongue, but she said nothing, jumping instead when the cabinet began to collapse on itself, blowing more sparks around, but none caught or even were able to spread too far, as Draco seemed to be making sure they would not.

There was a pool of melted silver on the ground, trailing slowly along the cold stone floor. Smoke stung at her eyes. Hermione looked up to the windows and raised her wand to open them all to clear the room.

Draco coughed a bit but didn't move. His arm didn't falter.

The flames were taller now. Stronger in their hunger. There was a louder pop and hiss this time, and the cabinet, now jagged and charred, lit from within by embers, caved in on itself completely, and what once had been a proud, handsome black piece of furniture lay in drifts of still-burning wood and ashes. The flames were dying down.

Hermione stepped forward as Draco lowered his wand.

He took a deep breath, as if he'd just woken, and turned to look at her. His eyes were wet, but he wiped at them.

"That felt good."

Hermione stared at the dying flames as they moved through the ashes, seeking more sustenance. There was nothing left. The silver was cooling against the stone, turning solid again. She pointed her wand at the mess.

"Aquamenti."

Water neutralized the flames instantly. More smoke billowed up.

The room had gone cold now that the windows were open.

Draco came to her. She took his hand.

"Shall we move on?" He asked.

"I can see a few cauldrons already," she said, nodding, fighting back a cough. "Let's go see if we can use one."

They found six cauldrons right away, but all of them were severely damaged and beyond repair. They set about to finding more and calling to each other if they found one that was usable.

At last, it was Hermione who emerged triumphant with a standard pewter cauldron she'd found hidden underneath a pile of moth-eaten witches robes that seemed more suited for playing dress-up than for daily wear. It had no physical defects upon inspection, unless one could count the graffiti scrawled across the side in Everlasting Ink. Hermione had called out to Draco and he had come over only to find her smiling, shaking her head as she'd discovered the word _'_ WANKER' under a film of dust at the bottom of the inside of the cauldron. She'd shown it to him and he'd grinned.

"I wonder if that was meant for Snape to see," he said.

"I can't imagine what his reaction must have been if he'd seen it," she said, and tried an impression of Snape: she looked down her nose at some poor invisible student, and said, "Go to Filch's office at once."

It wasn't a terrible impression. She had been spot on with the mannerism. Draco laughed, something squeezing gently at his heart to see her be so endearing. The episode from earlier was far flung in their minds. She had gone pink, stifling her laughter as if she thought Snape might find them again, her eyes dancing with light. Draco felt something pass between them and felt he ought to say something, or do something, but didn't know what—a kiss didn't seem quite enough so he floundered, and the moment passed. Hermione hadn't noticed his turmoil. She'd calmed down and shrank the cauldron, tucked it into her bag, and they left the Room of Requirement.

Harry and Ron were waiting by the doors to the Great Hall when Draco and Hermione found them. It appeared they had been talking to each other about something serious, but when they caught sight of them, had both fallen silent.

"Have we got everything, then?" Hermione asked.

Ron nodded and picked up a book that had been lying by his feet on the floor. Harry had another tucked under his arm.

"What's the extra for?" She asked.

"Some light reading," Harry said casually. Hermione gave him a look, but he said nothing and she supposed it wasn't the best time to pry when they were almost out of time. She held her bag open and they deposited their finds inside.

"Strangest thing happened," Ron mentioned after they'd arrived back at Grimmauld Place. "We ran into Dobby. He said he'd seen you two."

"Yes, he surprised us," Hermione said distractedly as she set her bag down on the kitchen table and began to pull out items carefully. "Did he help you at the library?"

"Yeah," Harry said, taking off his cloak. He pulled his wand out of his pocket and sat down at the table. "He said he wants to help us."

Hermione paused. "Did he? How?"

"He said McGonagall gave him a new place to stay inside the castle," Harry said. "A secret place. She told him that Hogwarts will open again but she won't be in charge, and not because she doesn't want to be. The Ministry's probably going to send a bunch of plants and Death Eaters there to teach the way they see fit, and she's asked him to be an informant and spy on them to see what the Order can do to stop them."

"Why not do anything right now?" Draco asked, frowning.

"She's about to be stripped of her position at Hogwarts," Ron said darkly. "The Minister's making it official next week, apparently."

Hermione's eyebrows dipped lower. "Then who's going to be the new Headmaster?"

"No one knows yet," Ron said. "Dobby said there's lots of secret places inside the castle, and he knows how to access them. He showed us one, on the third floor by the storage room in front of the painting of the lunar eclipse." His voice went quiet. "We checked the map. It wasn't on there. _Fred and George_ didn't know about it, and neither did Harry's dad and his lot. That's how secret it is."

"Do they lead anywhere?" Draco asked.

"They're not sure. Dobby's been mapping them all one by one. In case we ever need to go back to Hogwarts and McGonagall can't help bring us in, he says he might be able to find a way through."

"That would be incredibly useful," Hermione said. "But how can we contact him if he's staying at Hogwarts in secret?"

"We gave him your galleon," Ron said, sounding apologetic. "It was the only thing we could think of. Any other way would attract too much attention."

"No, that was smart thinking," Hermione said. "I can charm more, one for each of us."

"I don't think we've got many galleons lying around," Harry said even as he looked through his pockets, checking to see if he might be wrong.

"I might have some in my bag," Hermione said, and dove in again up to her elbows to start bringing out more items from their Hogwarts haul. "But I think this time we'll go with a sickle. Less conspicuous, that way, I think. Soon as I find them—"

She pulled out the books and stacked them on the table. Then the cauldron and shoved it to the side to make room for the rest. Then the vials, and so on.

Kreacher apparated into the room and made them all jump, except for Hermione, who was so focused on emptying her bag she almost had not heard him.

He bowed to Harry. "What will Master be wanting for dinner?"

"Er, anything will do," Harry said.

"That's hardly helpful, Harry," Hermione said, her voice muffled as she reached deeper into her bag.

Harry turned to Ron.

"Do you have steak and potatoes?" He asked. Kreacher nodded.

"Then we'd like that," Harry said. "Thanks."

"As Master wishes," Kreacher said, and disappeared.

"I still keep thinking he's pulling a long one on us," Ron muttered.

"Where does he even get the food from?" Draco asked. "We're not exactly a working household, here."

"I think mum mentioned once that Dumbledore provided funds for food and bills for this place, seeing as we used it so much for Order stuff. I'm sure it's still linked to Sirius's vault, too, unless…" he trailed off awkwardly, not having realized in enough time where that sentence was headed.

"Unless it ran out," Harry finished. "You're probably right."

A not too terrible silence ensued. Hermione had pulled out half of the ingredient jars by this point. The table grew more and more cluttered.

"So when will we start brewing the potion?" Ron asked. He'd taken the stolen potions book from the small stack that had assembled on the table and began to thumb through it.

"As soon as possible," Hermione said. "As soon as I get all of this out, preferably. Draco, I need you to fill a pitcher with water and bring it here. Ron, find the recipe page. Harry, clean out that cauldron. Polyjuice takes about a month to brew and we're going to need a larger quantity of it. From what I remember last time I made it, the hardest part is the first week or so. We have to get the ingredients to the _exact_ measurements required, so this will take some arithmatic, too, if we're making multiple portions."

"I'm reminded why I'm shit at Potions," Ron said, sighing, and began to flip faster through the book.

"Just look it up in the index, Ron," Hermione said.

"Where's that?"

"Never mind. Harry, bring me a knife if you can. A scale, too, if Kreacher has one somewhere."

The dining room suddenly bustled with activity. Ron found the right page a moment later, and read off the top of the ingredients list.

Harry set down the now clean cauldron (with that 'WANKER' still emblazoned on the side) on the table. Kreacher had sent up a burner for it, which she set aside. Draco provided the water, and she set that aside, too.

"I'll need paper and ink," she said, and dove back into her bag, emerging with those items a moment later.

Once she'd calculated the exact measurements of every ingredient down the list for four people for at least two doses each, she set down her parchment and took the burner, set it alight.

"Now we begin."

Kreacher Apparated in again, and they jumped again.

"Master and friends of Master Potter, dinner is ready," Kreacher said. "Kreacher needs the table cleared so master and friends may eat."

Hermione looked at the crowded, busy table.

"Is there somewhere we can brew a potion and not bother anyone?"

"Master Regulus used his room to brew often when he was young," Kreacher croaked thoughtfully. "Friends of Master may brew there, but very carefully."

Hermione looked at the fake locket still around his neck, hidden under his ragged tunic.

"Of course, Kreacher. Thanks."

"Shall we start moving everything?" Ron asked, but Kreacher snapped his fingers, and it was all gone in an instant, transported into his former Master's room. He snapped his fingers again, and the table was set and full of food. Ron made a sound of appreciation and scooted his chair close to the table.

"Thanks, Kreacher," he said, "this smells great."

The others began to tuck in. Hermione still had her eyes on Kreacher, who still stood near the table, his face twitching oddly. At first, she thought he was going to insult them and was fighting the impulse, but incredibly, he smiled instead. It was by no means a pretty smile, but it touched her heart.

 _When was the last time you were treated with kindness?_ She thought. She remembered how Sirius used to yell at him; even Harry and Ron had been rude to him on occasion and she supposed his life with the Blacks couldn't have been paradise.

"Hermione, pass me the green beans."

She blinked and turned back around just as she heard Kreacher Apparate away. She passed the bowl to Ron and then began to fill her own plate. Draco sat down beside her.

"Eat quickly," she said. "We'll start brewing the Polyjuice as soon as we're done. We need all the time we can get."

They nodded.

* * *

The rain fell heavily in Knockturn Alley, making the cobblestone floor slippery wherever she went, but she kept careful footing, and she had remembered to cast an _Impervius_ on herself before heading out.

She loved spending time here—not that she had any reason to, except when a job called for it. There was something different in the air here that kept her senses sharp and always on alert. It was good practice, though she'd gotten in scrapes before that had not been worth the exercise.

Hood secured over her head, she walked along the rows of dingy shops, making sure her walk was confident, so as to not attract grabby panhandlers or pickpockets. The others walking around stared only straight ahead. Knockturn was different from Diagon in the manner that people whispered in its streets, or muttered and sometimes screamed, but there was never any happy chatter or cheerful greetings, nor music playing, unless one counted the sour laughter and occasional fights emitting from the local pubs.

She scratched at her nose—had opted for a bigger one this time, and full lips. Her eyes were brown and dull. A large mole resided on her right temple. Her hair was long and light brown. She supposed she hadn't needed to go for such a drastic change, as she didn't plan to show her face, but safe was better than sorry, as she'd learned before. That, and it was another lesson Moody had almost engraved into her mind when she had still been an Auror In Training years ago.

The shops weren't terribly busy. Not yet, anyway. Business usually picked up by the afternoon, but she hadn't come here for the shops.

 _Not these, anyway._

She glanced over a tattoo shop, noting the moving designs taped to the window. Someone was getting work done inside—a wizard with blonde hair—she almost mistook him for Draco, but she slowed her walk as she passed by the second window and sharpened her gaze—no, this was someone else. She walked on and diverted from the main street into a smaller street with fewer shops in it.

The black market was a bit of a distance away for lack of space. They would be setting up now, rain-proofing their tents and filling their flasks with alcohol, grumbling about the weather, or the last raid.

A man was walking toward her, and the look in his eyes wasn't friendly. Her arms were at her sides, her wand stowed up her sleeve, ready to be whipped out at a second's notice. He was leering at her. Her skin crawled.

"Give us a smile, love," he crooned as he came closer. Tonks debated.

To flip him off would probably make him angry, and he might follow her, as had happened before. It would attract attention.

To hex him or retort back would have the same effect.

She ignored him instead and walked on as if he weren't even there.

"Bitch!" He called after her, and her hand twitched, ready for her wand. She listened keenly for his footsteps in case he was walking back to her anyway, but thankfully, they were growing only more distant.

There was an open square surrounded by trees and a large, decrepit grocery store. The flea market had been set up by the time she arrived, and already, buyers had come. She approached casually as if she were some local who'd been out for a stroll and had found something interesting.

She knew most of the regular vendors by now; Mark who sold hawked goods from estate sales, Tom who sold questionable handmade art from local artists. Mariah, who sold meat pies that looked dodgy but tasted heavenly. Closest to her on the right was Andy, who sold leather hides from his family's farm. Her eyes skipped over the many others who she couldn't see very well or didn't know at all. Over there, coughing violently into his stained handkerchief was Daniel, who sold robes and hats and other rags, well-tailored and handmade. Tonks had heard him say once he went through the rubbish of the local robes shops to find discarded fabric and other bits and pieces to take home and make into something new. He was skilled at clothes making and his profits could attest to that. Under a different guise, Tonks had once asked him why he didn't buy his own fabric or open his own shop.

"What for, when I've already got my shop?" He'd asked, grinning, wrinkles hatching across his face. "The shops give me all the fabrics I need. Why should I waste me own money?"

She couldn't argue with that.

Daniel wasn't whom she was after today, not that she had ever been. Daniel was by far the most talkative of the other vendors, and in exchange for a pint and a flirty smile, he was more than happy to divulge in the local gossip, and other handy bits of information. It was thanks to Daniel that she knew most of the regular vendors here in the square, but it was only one in particular she was looking for today.

"A set of magenta robes for you, lady?" He asked as she passed, pulling out the robes from the rack behind him, a pleasant smile on his face.

She shook her head and walked on, heading farther down the market, where it would take a turn and end up by the gutters of the canal.

Here, there were fewer people. She took the opportunity to duck her head down and age herself, stooping her posture, fleshing out her body so that no one might look twice at her. Down by the canal's end were the more unsavory merchants, and she didn't need extra eyes on her.

There were alleyways tucked away just above where the opioid dealers made their money but they weren't here today. Tonks had seen prostitutes lingering around before but there were none here now, and she wasn't about to blow her own cover, anyway. The numerous tunneled passageways made for a quick getaway if you knew where you were going, and the narrow walkways limited the number of people that could cluster around any particular area. The brackish, flowing water split the area down the middle and there was a shoddy little arched bridge to aid anyone wanting to get to the other side.

It might have looked nicer a couple of decades ago. The smell, according to Daniel, had never changed.

There were shoppers here already as well, but not many, and all as cloaked as she was.

They'd pulled stings here before. Several, in fact. The vendors here knew the risk. She recognized some she had arrested before and had done time, but today wasn't for arrests. Today was for gathering information.

She found him at the far end of the walkway, after walking slowly past several shady vendors and pretending to be interested in some of their wares.

Morty, the identity thief had caught her eye. He was known for digging through the rubbish looking for hairs, nail clippings, lost teeth and the like. It was standard practice for most wizards to burn their discarded hairs and other bits in the incinerator, but there was always ignorant folk who assumed they would always be in the clear, or that the market for identities was a made up thing meant to scare you into looking silly.

"Looking for a new fit?" Morty asked, grinning, showing two upper missing teeth. "I can help you hide from creditors, debt collectors, anything. Anyone." He pulled a vial out of his pocket. It was full of nail clippings. "Take your pic, good lady. Unless you want to turn younger?" He brought out another vial, labeled 18-25.

"If I wanted to get away from some Aurors?" Tonks asked quietly, leaning in like she was considering it.

Morty leaned in, too. "I know a bloke who can fix you up new papers," he said. "He supplies Polyjuice, too, for those who can't brew it. All for a fair price."

That was new. Tonks made a mental note of that. Morty had done time before—she'd never been assigned to his case, but she'd heard enough about him. He was slippery, too. He'd been arrested several times before and had served five years in Azkaban the last time they'd managed to retain him. He'd gotten out months ago and they hadn't heard of him since, but here he was. Tonks wondered who this mysterious partner was, and where Morty had met him.

Behind him was a table with similar vials, some filled halfway with what looked like eyelashes, others with longer hairs. There was a small cardboard box filled with what she found out were teeth. Some still had bits of gum on them, as if they'd just been yanked out. They were all adult teeth. Somehow, that was more disturbing.

"How much?" She asked.

"Ninety galleons for the lot," Morty said, and she dug out her purse and looked through it.

"I'm short," she said. "I'll come back tomorrow."

She made to leave, and Morty went after her, eager not to lose a possible sale.

"I won't be here tomorrow—I'll give you a discount!" He said. "Eighty galleons!"

She snorted. "Still short."

He looked exasperated.

"Seventy-five! Seventy!"

She shook her head. Up ahead, another customer was loudly haggling over the price of some jewelry to another vendor.

"Sixty?"

Nothing.

He sighed, a trace of anger in his face now.

"Fifty. I won't go lower."

She gave him her coin purse and he snatched it, as if thinking she might yank it away.

"This is enough for a month," he said, handing her the vial marked 18-25. "If you need Polyjuice, I've got my supplier. I'll be here again two weeks from now."

Tonks nodded, slipped the vial inside her pocket, and left.

Truth be told, there had been forty galleons inside her coin purse, and every one of them was fake, but a remarkable copy made for situations like this, just for use by Aurors and those they intended to track. If Morty had been desperate to make a sale, he might not realize he had been duped right away. Most vendors inspected their revenue right after making a sale, usually at the end of the day when things had died down in the market, but she recognized Morty was out of practice, and he clearly had a need for the money, as he was rapidly taking down his setup and preparing to leave.

Moody and the others would have pinned him down by day's end tomorrow. First, they would see where and how he spent that money. She'd have to dispatch a message later.

 _I bloody love my job,_ she thought.

She crossed the small bridge and made her way to the other side of the canal and found her target at last.

She could smell him before she saw him, and that smell was recognizable enough after having to sit through countless Order meetings with him.

He was slurring information about prices to another customer who was looking rather disinterestedly at his wares. Tonks looked at Mundungus Fletcher coolly.

 _Traitor,_ she wanted to scream at him. _You betrayed us all._

She shoved that impulse deeper down and feigned interest in a golden pair of cascading earrings that when worn, would touch her other customer wandered on.

"Y've got guhd tsste, dearie," Mundungus slurred, and Tonks fought that barb of annoyance that prickled at her. Every time she came here, it was always "dearie, and sweetheart, and lovely". All spoken to her like she was a child. Daniel was the only one who said it in earnest, like he wasn't talking down to her, like he genuinely meant it as a polite greeting. The others leered, even when she made herself unattractive, and she could always guess their thoughts whenever she snooped around their tables, setting up another dupe.

 _'_ _You poor, ugly thing. That necklace/bracelet/scarf/earrings won't make you look any prettier. I'll drive up the price because I know how bad you want them.'_

Even when she made herself more attractive, there was that condescension, still. It met her on every road.

 _'_ _You vain, dumb, pretty thing. You're probably bad with money so I'll drive up the price because I know you'll buy it anyway.'_

It only made it all the more satisfying when she handed over her fake, expertly disguised coin-trackers.

She smiled at him.

"How much?" She asked Fletcher.

"Fuhhr you," he squinted at her. "Thir'y galleens."

She laughed inwardly as she looked through her second fake coin purse.

"I've only got twenty."

"Deal," he said, and she handed the coins over. He threw them all into his own coin purse without even counting or checking and took a long swig from his flask.

 _Good. I only gave him fifteen._

"Good day," he said, smiling, stumbling over himself. She smiled brightly at him and pocketed the earrings, and exited the canal as fast as she could without appearing suspicious.

She ducked into an alley way and Apparated after she made sure the coast was clear.

Moody was seated at his desk when she entered, tearing into a venison sandwich. His magical eye looked up and he waved her in. She sat down, letting her features morph back into her true self—pink hair, crooked mouth, freckles, and brown eyes. She'd pulled her uniform back on hastily.

Moody swallowed his bite and looked up without saying a word, waiting for her to speak.

She didn't smile.

"I found him."

* * *

A/N:

This was a doozy to edit but I hope you all enjoy! Please leave a review and let me know what you think! Sorry for the wait ;-;


	4. Patience

**SORRY FOR THE WAIT. UPDATE TO TEOAL COMING SOON.**

* * *

 **Four**.

Hermione leaned against the wall, her legs stretched out on the floor. She rolled her shoulders forward, wincing. They ached from having been hunched over the cauldron stirring for the past hour. Her hair had frizzed, it tickled her shoulder as it ran along her skin. The vapors coming from the cauldron weren't unpleasant, but they did make a room musty. A light sheen of sweat glazed her forehead.

"There," she said, pushing her hair from her face. Her back ached. "Now we don't touch it for the next twenty-four hours."

Harry nodded, his eyes on the bubbling cauldron.

"Mark the time, someone who has a watch," Hermione instructed.

Ron glanced at his wrist. "Right."

Draco was unrolling his sleeves, pulling them back down to button at his wrists. He caught Hermione's eyes on him as he did so, and looked at her, silently inquiring if she had said something. She merely turned away, a faint smile on her lips. Perplexed, Draco looked away.

"I don't know about you lot, but that wiped me out," Weasley said. "This damn potion's too complicated to make."

"It's good that there's four of us to do it all together," Hermione said. "Remember how we just barely managed to do it our second year?" She shoved the lengthy—and complicated—list of instructions back into her pocket.

Ron shook his head. "I almost tripped over it, too. You wouldn't let me near it for a week." He stretched, went to the door. "I wonder if Kreacher's started dinner yet."

Hermione started. "It's almost dinner time?"

Harry pulled back the curtain over the window. The sun had set; the sky was ink-dark.

"Still an hour left until," he said. A yawn broke from his mouth. "I'm going to sleep."

"You're not going to eat, first?" Hermione asked.

"Not if someone doesn't wake me in time." He left the room, Ron behind him.

The cauldron bubbled quietly. Hermione's tired gaze was fixed on the wall adjacent to them. Regulus's room was dingy and dark, just like every other room inside Grimmauld Place. There were no decorations on the wall. When they had been preparing the room for potion-making use, she had looked through the drawers, unsure of what to find. They'd all been full of torn-up papers and dried-up ink, photographs that had been ripped in half but revealed no familiar faces. She'd found some messy drawings in there, too.

She felt a hand on her shoulder and looked up.

"We should go, too," Draco said. "If you're hungry, I'll ask Kreacher to fix something up for you."

His kindness still surprised her, sometimes. Would it ever stop? She supposed it was a great thing to have to get used to.

"I'm too tired to get up," Hermione said, smiling that faint smile again.

"Then I'll join you." Draco sat beside her on the floor, his arm pressed against hers. She hesitated, then leaned against him, her head resting on his shoulder. Draco felt warmth run through him at the gesture; something tender and so great it might burst in his chest.

Hermione fell asleep almost immediately, her energy depleted by the annoyingly complicated task of preparing the Polyjuice potion. She had given each of them a job to do, and they had performed it as best they could, but she had still done the brunt of the work. She had done this before, he'd remembered. And Potter and Weasley certainly trusted her with the task. He could imagine the disastrous results they might have come across had either one of those two done it themself. He had offered to take on more work—Weasley had muttered 'don't do it,' at him, but Hermione only shook her head sharply and asked Potter to chop faster.

Draco turned carefully so as not to wake her. Her face was a little flushed from the vapors of the brew and all the exertion of the past few hours, but her furrowed brow had smoothed out and her mouth was a little slack. He admired her for a moment.

Hermione sighed softly in her sleep. Her breath warmed his arm through the fabric of his shirt.

 _How do you do it?_ He thought, still looking at her.

She was such a hard worker. She took on so much. How did she handle it? He supposed it was habit by now. Perhaps it had always been in her nature. That was something he could believe more readily. That and the fact that she didn't trust others to do things was common knowledge. Neither Weasley nor Potter was the greatest of Potions students, he supposed she'd become painfully aware of that a long time ago.

He reached up with his right arm and brushed some tendrils of hair from her forehead.

She was so still as she slept. She didn't twitch once. He could feel her pulse through his arm. He settled back against the wall slowly, and within minutes, her rhythmic breathing wove sleep's net around him too, and soon enough, it snared him.

* * *

Harry, who'd gone to the loo just after leaving the Malfoy and Hermione, had just reached his room when he felt his pocket and realized the Snitch had fallen out of it. It had become a habit to carry it everywhere with him in the hope that something might trigger it to open or react in some way to give him the clue he needed. Or if he ever had an epiphany about what _'I open at the close'_ meant, he wanted to waste no time in finding the Snitch to discover what it would do.

He almost resisted the urge to stay in his room and go back for the Snitch later. But he was still on his feet, so he figured he'd just go and make it quick. He went up the stairs, nearly silent in his worn socks. Years of pretending to be invisible at the Dursley's had made him light on his feet, and on other's ears. He could thank them for that, at least. The door to Regulus's bedroom, now their makeshift Potions room, was still open. He started to rush in, the image of his bed calling to him in his mind's eye.

He stopped short, seeing who sat on the far side of the room, huddled together.

Hermione and Malfoy both sat against the wall, deeply asleep. Malfoy's head was tilted back, Hermione's head had dropped to his chest, her hands in her lap. One of Malfoy's hands had made its home on top of both her hands.

Harry could only stare at the foreign picture, trying to make sense of it.

Hermione's words echoed back to him from what felt like months ago, now.

 _"_ _He's different."_

That was becoming clearer to him day by day, and the close quarters they were in were bound to reveal more of Draco Malfoy than he'd ever seen before, or really cared to know.

 _He murdered Dumbledore,_ a voice said in his head. Harry felt his insides twist.

 _It was part of a plan,_ another voice reasoned. _Dumbledore asked him to kill him. You may not have wanted to accept it, but you saw the conflict on his face. You saw the regret, after._

The malicious voice continued, undeterred.

 _Now he's wrapping himself around one of your best friends, and you remember very clearly what he did to her. How do you know she hasn't been enchanted by him to stay by his side?_

His eyes were on their joined hands.

 _I trust her,_ he thought. _I always have. If she believes him, I can try to, even if I don't like it._

 _He'll only bring you to more trouble._

That, Harry didn't doubt.

He blinked. His eyes suddenly felt very dry.

Not for the first time, he wondered how much had happened between them before the night Dumbledore had died, that Hermione hadn't told them.

His gaze lingered on their joined hands again.

There was so much behind that one gesture. He wondered if he would ever hear it. Part of him cringed at the thought, but he couldn't help the morbid curiosity that surfaced whenever he saw the two of them together.

Of all the things he'd never expected to happen in his life, this had been at the bottom of the list.

How long had he been standing there, staring at them? His ears went hot. If either of them woke up now…

He was about to turn and leave when he remembered the reason he'd come.

If he went in, they'd wake up and see him there.

He remembered his wand and grabbed it from his pocket.

"Accio Snitch," he whispered. The Snitch floated to him and landed in his palm.

Harry cast one last look at the couple (that word felt wrong even in his _head_ ) and ghosted away.

* * *

Draco and Hermione awoke a half hour later. She stirred first, and his eyes opened, clearing slowly as she sat up and stretched.

Draco yawned widely.

She straightened, her hand on his thigh for balance. Draco's gaze sharpened at once on that hand and its proximity to his groin. She appeared not to notice and moved it a second later. They sat in comfortable silence for a moment.

"I need a shower," she said, her voice thick with exhaustion. Clearly, the nap had not helped.

"I'll join you," he said again, half-jokingly. "To save water."

She smiled, swatted his arm, and stood. She reached down and offered her hand to him.

He took it, and she gripped it, ready to help haul him up, but before she could, he pulled her closer, leaning forward to place a kiss on the back of her hand, lips brushing softly against her knuckles.

She held his hand tighter.

"Come on, Mr. Romance," she said, her voice teasing, but full of warmth. "My arse hurts from sitting on this floor for so long. Let's go."

This time, he allowed himself to be pulled, and he stood up, caught her waist in one arm, her cheek with the other, and kissed her until he drew out a soft, pleased moan from her throat.

"Mr. Romance, am I?" He asked, his voice low and vibrating against the skin of her throat. "Would you rather have something else?"

"I like it plenty," she said, smiling. "I'll be honest, I always thought you were…" she grasped for the right word.

Draco raised a brow, grinning. It was a rare treat to see her at a loss for words.

"Rougher, I suppose," she finished, frowning slightly. "Not to sound critical. I just never pictured you so gentle."

Draco thought for a moment.

"Our first kiss," he began, turning slightly red, "wasn't too far off the mark from how I like it. But with everything that happened before and after, I didn't want to do that again—at least not to the point where it would remind you of that time." He brushed his hand along her cheek. "I don't want to scare you off."

Hermione nodded, touched. Still, dissatisfaction needled at her, prodded at her to speak her mind.

"I don't mind it," she said slowly. "I appreciate you doing that for me. But I sense you're holding back."

Draco, not quite sure how to respond, shrugged one shoulder.

"Would you rather I didn't?"

Now it was her turn to go red, but there was no shyness in her eyes, only desire when she looked up at him.

"You don't have to treat me like I'm fragile. You know I'm not."

That he did, indeed.

There was a beat of silence. Her stare was challenging, beckoning him forth, and Draco couldn't help but admire her forthrightness as he backed her into the wall, heart racing, his forehead touching hers. His heart pounded with excitement as her meaning wrapped itself around him.

"You want more, do you?"

"Yes," she whispered. Her face was flushed, her breaths heavy in anticipation. Their eyes were locked together. Neither could look away.

"I may not have much experience, if at all," she said, her face turning redder, "but I don't want gentle all the time."

His hands were on her waist, sliding slowly down to her hips, taking in the feel of the curves that made up that trip. She raised her hands to fall about his neck, clutching him tightly.

"What do you want, then?" He asked.

By way of reply, she took one of his hands and pressed it to her breast, gasped as he immediately cupped it roughly in his hand and began to massage it through her clothing. She brought his head down for a kiss, and her lips were like wildfire, ravaging him with a hunger he reciprocated easily.

Who'd have known such passion lived inside her? Often, even in years past when he'd still hated her, he'd imagined what she might be like in bed. He'd assumed she'd be cold in demeanor and stiff as a board. It was a horrible thing and he was aware of that, but to look on himself now with her actually _experiencing_ it, was boggling.

His other hand pressed on her middle, flat against her, and roved down the worn material of her blouse. His fingers pointed down; he could feel every breath she took as he pressed closer to her. Her tongue found his, tasted him. He groaned. She broke the kiss, panting, to grab her wand from her pocket and pointed it at the door, which closed silently. He caught the shape of the 'Muffliato' on her lips as she cast it over the room. She put the wand away and met his eye. Her hands came up to unbutton the top half of her blouse, and when that fabric was out of the way, she undid her bra and untangled herself from it without taking off her shirt, which amazed him, as he was used to girls magicking their clothes off.

Her breasts were freed, her skin mottled with a blush from the humidity of the room. Her nipples were hard. Draco stepped back into her, pushing one knee between her legs. She smiled, and the gleam in her eye only made him harder for her.

"Who are you, Granger?" He whispered.

She pulled him against her. He bent lower, his hands on her breasts, lavishing them with attention. She let her head fall back, soft, pleasured noises coming from her throat as he took a nipple in his mouth and played with the other while his free hand dipped low again until it sat on the fixture of her jeans—a cold button that he tugged on once, a silent query.

"Yes—" she cut herself off with a moan as he teased her, sucking lightly on her nipple.

It took a moment to undo her jeans. He pressed his palm flat against her pubic area, feeling her heat through her panties. Her hips pushed into his hand. He ground back against her thigh and groaned.

He slipped a finger between her panties and her skin. When she didn't protest, he added another, and another, until his whole hand was pressed intimately against her and the thick thatch of hair he found there. He felt his cock throb, and slowly twirled some of that lovely hair around his fingers, more turned on than he'd ever been in his life.

She had noticed his hand pause there and cleared her throat.

"If you don't like it, I can—"

He trailed his middle finger along her slit, delighted at her wetness. She gasped.

"Please don't," he murmured and kissed her between her breasts. "I like it very much."

He stroked her again, pushing his finger between her lips to find her clitoris. When he found that hard, slick little bud, he applied light pressure on it and began to stroke in circles as his tongue worked on her nipple.

" _Oh_ ," she said, her knees buckling.

Draco moaned in response, and the vibration of his moan against her body had Hermione's head falling back.

"Draco," she whispered. Her eyes were closed tightly, her mouth was parted. "We should go to your room."

Draco unintentionally brushed against a spot that had her exclaim sharply in pleasure, her hips bucking.

He grinned and stroked it again, more slowly.

Her body trembled, pressed between him and the wall. He trailed the tip of his tongue along the peak of her stiff nipple.

"I'm not leaving this room until you cum," he said, and she groaned, more out of pleasure than frustration as his fingers quickened their pace.

"You stubborn arse," she said, grinning, eyes still closed, a heady flush creeping up her neck.

"You know you love it," he said and kissed her. Her hands clutched at his hair, one trailing down shortly after to feel his back, to grab at his arse.

"Faster," she panted. Delighted, and painfully aroused, Draco obliged, experimenting in different speeds until hit the right one and she begged him to keep at that pace until he felt her breath hitch twice, and her body convulsed slightly, arching into him.

"Ah—" she bit her lip, and when she opened her eyes, they were bright and unfocused.

He met her eye and licked his fingers clean, a naughty smile curving his lips. Her knees went weak again.

Her hand grazed his erection, straining through the fabric of his trousers, and he sucked in a breath, watching that hand rub him slowly.

Their eyes locked.

"Bedroom," she said.

"Why not here?" He asked, stupidly, just as they heard a CRACK outside the door.

Lightning fast, their hearts having jumped into their throats, they scrambled to fix themselves. Topless, and without her wand, which she'd left on the work table, she dove behind a curtain just as the door opened.

"Kreacher would like to announce that dinner will be served in ten minutes," came the House Elf's croaking voice from the door.

Draco cleared his throat.

"That's great, thanks."

There was another CRACK as the House Elf disapparated. Draco released a shaky breath and his eye caught on a flash of color on the floor—Hermione's top.

He felt his face flood with color. It was directly in view from the door. And worse—Hermione's bra was slightly visible beside it.

He summoned them with his wand quickly, and went to the curtain, pulling it back slightly.

"I think he knows," he said softly. "Your stuff was on the floor—I should have hidden them—"

Her head was down, her hands covering her breasts. His first thought was that she was crying, and his stomach sank.

Then she looked up, laughing so hard tears streamed from her eyes.

"Oh God," she gasped. "That's twice now we've been caught! Oh no…"

"I should have listened when you said we should have gone to the other room," he said, handing her things back. "I'm sorry."

She took her clothing back gratefully and turned her back to him as she redressed.

"It's alright," she said, still winding down from her laugh. "We'll just have to be more careful. I don't need anybody else winking at me."

"Who's winking at you?" Draco asked.

"Fred and George, ever since they caught us snogging at the Burrow," she said and turned back to face him. "Jokesters, the both of them, but they forget I caught them with wizard magazines once in fifth year."

"Really…"

"Oh, yes," she said, grinning. She'd gone to the door and looked at him expectantly. "Let's go to dinner. I'm famished."

* * *

"Where's Hermione?" Ron asked.

Harry had just entered the musty, uninviting living room, where Ron lounged on one of the couches, flipping through a book without reading any of it. Dinner had been quiet, and fast. Harry hadn't gotten that nap he'd wanted. He hadn't felt tired after his encounter in the Polyjuice room and had spent the past hour pacing around the third floor.

"I saw her in the library with Malfoy."

Ron made a face and turned another page unhappily.

Harry picked a seat and sat down. His scar ached a bit, but not enough to warrant alarm. He'd woken with a headache and had all but forced himself to get out of bed.

"There's nothing to do here," Ron muttered, and threw the book to the other end of the couch, toward his feet.

"I thought you were reading."

"That author's as bad as Lockhart. All he does is bring up anecdotes from his life instead of actually talking about anything interesting."

"That's a shame."

"I'm going to lose my mind in here." Ron sighed and crossed his arms, scowling.

He wondered what Hermione was doing. He could picture her in that gross library, Malfoy seated beside her. Where they actually working in there? Or did they only stay in there so often so they could do things they couldn't do around him and Harry?

Jealousy thrashed inside him like a trapped eel.

"What does she see in him?"

Harry blinked, having been dozing off.

"I dunno," he said. He thought back to that morning, what he'd stumbled upon.

"So he isn't ugly to look at. Is that all there is?" Ron asked. His brows were bent.

Harry put aside the book he'd intended to read. He hadn't even opened it yet. Its cover boasted a worn, almost illegible title, but the title page on the inside had caught his attention: _History of Dark Magic._

"You know Hermione isn't shallow like that," he said.

"She went after Krum, didn't she?" Ron asked.

" _Krum_ pursued _her_." Harry eyed his best friend. "You're jealous again."

Ron didn't deny it this time. He pulled at some loose threads in his shirt rather sullenly.

"She's known me just as long as she's known him. I'm not perfect, but I'd like to think I'm not as big of a prick as him. Why stay with him, with everything that he's done?"

Harry took his spectacles off, cleaning the lenses with his shirt.

"She said he's changed. I believe her." He paused. "He's shown us he wants to be on our side. I can't know everything that they've said to each other, but if she trusts him and forgave him, I trust her that she made the right choice."

"What if she didn't?"

 _You don't know her at all, do you?_ Harry thought.

He hesitated. "If he proves us wrong, we'll deal with it."

The image of Malfoy and Hermione's joined hands flashed through his mind's eye again. He pushed it away and reached for his book.

* * *

The Polyjuice wouldn't be ready for weeks. Every other day they worked a little more at it, but its strict brewing process prevented them from really being able to make enormous progress in one day. It was hard and frankly tedious work, and they were usually exhausted when their makeshift Potions session was over.

They received the Daily Prophet every day and passed it around, grim-faced as they caught up on the latest news. Voldemort's influence in the Ministry was made more apparent when the Wanted posters bearing Draco's name disappeared, and Harry's replaced it, along with a picture, which had been splashed on the front page of this particular day's issue. The advert claimed he was the prime suspect in Dumbledore's death, which had shocked Ron when he'd first seen it.

"Why switch _you_ out with him?" He'd asked, gesturing angrily over his porridge. He'd looked intensely at Draco. "There were witnesses who know you did it!"

" _We_ are those witnesses, Ron," Hermione had said, fighting the uneasiness that had settled on her shoulders. "It was just the four of us. Now that we're gone and can't testify, who's going to know the truth?"

"We gave our accounts to the Order!" Ron replied. "They know Malfoy did it!"

"Why would they listen to them?" Draco had said, angry and bored. "Voldemort's plants at the Ministry can probably misplace some files, or find other ways to make sure no one believes the truth. It's not hard to bend the truth."

"Yeah, I'm sure you know all about that," Ron said angrily.

"I'm telling you what to expect," Draco snapped. "You can't always think things are going to work out in favor of justice. I know that's a laugh coming from me, but I came from that other side so at least I know how things are more likely to go."

Ron had shaken his head, but not replied.

More people were disappearing. There seemed to be a new case every other day. Most of them were women. Hermione always lingered on those brief notices, a crease between her brows.

In between the news and trying to read up on Horcruxes (which was turning out to be absolutely fruitless), lounging around in frustration and talking to each other, there wasn't much else to do, and it was slowly driving them mad.

"We could just pop into Hogsmeade for a few minutes," Ron had suggested once, as Hermione had been rearranging the contents of her bag for the fourth time in a week. "We could use charms to disguise ourselves."

"We could," Hermione said, "but why do you want to go to Hogsmeade? We're brewing the potion so we don't have to rely on charms that might go wrong. We're preparing for a mission, not a night out at the bar."

"Says who I want to go to a bar?" He'd asked, scowling.

"Three days ago you talked about going to the Three Broomsticks!"

"Are bars not a good place to hear the current gossip?" He'd asked defensively.

"We could attract the wrong attention," Hermione said. "All sorts of people spend time in bars. We want to be seen as little as possible."

"Hence the disguise charms."

"Have you forgotten they've got the Dementors stationed at Hogsmeade again?" She'd asked sharply. "They're increasing surveillance everywhere. We can't just go waste time dallying around random places when we should be looking for Horcruxes. And if you're so insistent on disguise charms then have at them, but I haven't seen you practicing them at all since we got here."

He had given up, after that.

Harry spent much of his time wandering around the house, deep in thought, one hand on the Snitch in his pocket, as if it were an egg he'd hoped would crack open eventually. Grimmauld Place's tiny library, unfortunately, had more books about the Black's family history than anything else, spanning multiple generations. Hermione had caught Harry reading one of them, dated around the time of Sirius's birth. When she had asked about it later to see if he had learned anything, he'd only shook his head, and muttered something about the pages being torn out.

When the first Death Eater popped up outside the wards of Grimmauld Place a day later, nobody had batted an eye. They realized with a dull sort of dread that they had expected it. A quick back and forth from Pansy and Ginny informed them that there were still watchers outside of the Burrow and that as far as the Order knew, the other side didn't know they were hiding out there.

"They probably suspect someone's there," read the message from Ginny, "but they don't know who. Stay low and don't go outside, McGonagall says."

Hermione spent most of her time checking on the Potion, making sure it was perfect. Harry had asked if it really needed to be checked so many times in one day, but she couldn't help it. So many things could go wrong so easily, and with the amount of time they were losing over brewing it in the first place, she couldn't bear to even entertain the notion that something might ruin their Polyjuice before it would be done.

When she wasn't doing that or reading from one of the many books she'd brought with her hoping for some useful information, she arranged and rearranged her bag, ever mindful of the disaster at Bill and Fleur's wedding, and wanting to be prepared at a moment's notice. Draco would read with her in silence—she could feel the restlessness tearing at him—he felt useless here, and it was apparent when he would pace up and down the length of his room, bored out of his mind. He would ask if she needed help with anything, and the answer was usually no, but she hated seeing him so lost and dejected, so she would give him a fresh book from her stores and ask him to find any mention of Horcrux or anything that related to the dark arts. He would find spells in some of these books that he would practice—the most recent had been designed to create a sophisticated illusion: a duplicate of oneself. It was quite an advanced spell, and she had watched for the better part of an hour as he'd tried again and again, admiring his intensity on mastering the spell. So far he could only manage to conjure a ghostly form beside himself but had been impressed with his rapid progress and dedication.

She herself had tried some of those spells and had succeeded at almost all of them instantly. She had written them down onto bits of parchment so she wouldn't forget them and might practice again later.

Time passed strangely in the dim halls of Grimmauld Place. From the moment of their arrival, Hermione had felt herself slowly becoming restless with each day that passed, feeling that they crawled by at the rate a flobberworm might crawl a mountain. She would wake and work on the potion with the others, dine with them, read or practice spells—sometimes she would just sit down and then wake up from a nap she hadn't intended to take. Sometimes, if she and Draco had been in the library and she would fall into one of those accidental naps, she would wake hours later in her own bed, confused as to how she'd gotten there until Draco had told her he did it because she had complained about how uncomfortable the chairs in the library were once. After that, he'd decided to carry her up to her own bed so that she might sleep better. That made her feel lucky in a way she'd never thought she'd feel.

Despite her and Draco's fledgling relationship, she was starting to feel Grimmauld Place shrinking down around her to the size of a chicken coop. She hadn't anticipated that becoming a fugitive and dismantling Voldemort's power would be so…boring.

 _This is only the beginning,_ she often reminded herself. _If we'd been more prepared from the start, we wouldn't be sitting around waiting like this so often._

She would learn in time that this was not always the case.

Nobody came to visit them, as they had warned Pansy and Ginny against it for fear of being caught by one of the Death Eaters stationed either at Grimmauld Place or the Burrow. They communicated frequently through the charmed galleons, however, and learned something very interesting.

"Tonks says they've found Mundungus," Hermione said one day as they sat in the dining room, tired from looking after the Polyjuice potion. It was almost done—all that was left was give it a few more days to brew before they could bottle it.

Ron looked up sharply. "Good. I hope they throw him in Azkaban, the traitor."

"Where was he hiding?" Harry asked.

"Somewhere close by Knockturn Alley, at some abandoned church. She says she found him selling hawked goods not long ago, but was only there for intel. They found his hideout two days ago. Apparently, someone built a bunker underneath that church."

"Not Mundungus, surely," Ron said, scoffing.

"From what Ginny says Tonks told them, it looks like that bunker was built decades ago," Hermione said, gratefully accepting a cup of tea from Kreacher, who had come in with a tray of sandwiches floating behind him, and full tea service in his hands.

"Either way," Hermione continued as Draco sat down beside her, "she says he tried to run but they took him in for questioning."

"Did he say why he ratted us out?" Ron demanded.

"Tonks told them he owed someone on their side a favor. A big one, and they didn't want money. He couldn't name the person, but he said they wanted to know how much security there was around the Burrow. I don't know how much Mundungus told them, but Tonks suspects they got him while he was drunk, and he probably told them more than he meant to."

"He shouldn't have told them _anything_ ," Ron said, disgusted, looking away. "He put my family in danger all because he's too poor to pay off a debt."

"He was just trying to survive," Hermione said. "It was wrong of him to do it, but what other choice did he have?"

"He could have run away!"

"How effective would that have been?" Harry asked. "What if they'd caught him, and taken every bit of information they wanted and extra from him? The situation at the Burrow would have turned out much worse, Ron."

Ron sighed harshly. "Fine. Fine. I didn't think of it that way."

"And," Draco added, "we might have found Mundungus dead rather than alive."

"I said _fine_ , drop it!"

Draco shook his head and turned away.

"Anyhow," Hermione said after an awkward pause, "Mundungus admitted to stealing loads of stuff from this place and selling it all."

"What exactly did he sell?" Harry asked at once. "And to who?"

Hermione held up a finger. "They took Mundungus to the Auror's Department at the Ministry an hour ago," she said. "After the Order got all the answers they needed from him."

"So we're going to have to find him, then, and ask."

Hermione shook her head, a faint smile on her face. "I asked Ginny if she could get to Mundungus without being noticed. Pansy was her lookout, and I asked her to ask him if he remembered taking a locket from here and selling it." Her eyes locked onto Harry's. "He did. He described it exactly the same as the fake. He couldn't get it to open."

"Who did he sell it to?" Draco asked.

Hermione's mouth settled into a grim line.

"He says he sold it to a fat, short woman who looks like a toad."

Silence reigned in the room for approximately three seconds.

"There's no fucking _way_ ," Harry said, rising quickly from his seat. "There could be loads of other women who look like her."

"Ginny says they kept asking to make sure, and Mundungus insists the woman was wearing all pink."

Harry was shaking his head.

"Fucking hell," Ron muttered.

"Why would she want the locket?" Draco asked, frowning.

"She probably recognized it as a Slytherin artifact," Hermione said, shrugging. "Imagine if you stumbled upon a relic from Merlin, or one of the school founders. Would you just walk away?"

"Only if it belonged to somebody else," Draco said honestly.

She nodded, and he couldn't tell if she was doing so because she'd expected his answer, or because she was admitting that she would do the same. Her look was not judgmental, and that gave him some relief.

"Did she even know it was real?" Ron asked.

"Did Mundungus?" Hermione asked. "Probably not, and he likely sold it for much less than what it's worth. I'm sure she ran to have it appraised afterward, if she wasn't already absolutely sure."

Harry was thinking of the sword of Gryffindor, how it had appeared for him in the past, how Dumbledore had left it to him, but was lost. If he ever found it, what would he even do with it? There were too many bad memories wrapped around it, now.

He shook himself out of the thought.

"So she's got it, then," he said, and it was no use to even try to continue to deny it was her because of _course_ the woman he hated most in the world had exactly what he needed. He was through with these unpleasantly ironic surprises. "We need to steal it from her."

Draco choked on his tea. Harry slid him a napkin.

"And how," Draco asked, wiping at the liquid on his chin, "do you propose we do that?"

"The Polyjuice is nearly done," Ron said. "We take it and break into her house, steal it when she's not home."

"What if she's got security around her home?" Hermione asked.

Harry snorted. "She's isn't _that_ important, no matter what she thinks."

"Potter, I believe I'm seeing another side of you I didn't know existed," Draco remarked. "Fascinating."

Harry shot him a 'don't start with me,' look. He looked at Hermione.

"Can you ask Ginny and Pansy to find out where Umbridge lives?"

"I can't imagine how they're going to explain that one to McGonagall," Hermione said, and reached for the galleon.

"Not through McGonagall," Harry said quickly. "Ask them to ask Fred and George for help."

"Okay."

"We're really going to do this, then?" Ron asked, grinning. "We're going to break into that old toad's house." His grin faded. "Merlin, what do you think it's like in there?"

"Even pinker, and even more kittens than she had at Hogwarts," Draco said tonelessly.

"Well, that's a given. I'm willing to bet she'll have copies of her decrees on her walls," Ron replied.

"No," Draco said. "I'm sure we're going to find a poster of Potter somewhere." At Harry's doubtful look, he added, "After all the trouble you gave her? I'm positive she's determined to be the one to find the 'Undesirable Number 1' and turn you in."

"Before we do anything, we need to do research," Hermione said.

 _"_ _Research?"_

"We need to locate the place, watch it for a day or two, and learn her schedule. We should go in disguise, obviously, and see if she has anyone living with her, and form a plan around that…" She made a face. "Honestly, I'm not sure I like this idea."

"What else can we do?" Draco asked.

"It's either that or sneak into the Ministry," she said. "And I like that one much less."

"It'll be alright, Hermione," Ron said. "We break in, steal the necklace, and we run like hell. In and out."

Hermione didn't look convinced at all.

* * *

"Do you think we can pull it off?" Draco asked later, when Harry and Ron had gone, and he and Hermione remained alone in the dining room.

"Yes," she said slowly. "But it's incredibly risky—even with the Polyjuice. We'll have to take extra with us, and hope that doesn't deplete the amount we have to the point we'll waste another month making more." She tucked her hair behind one ear. "No matter how careful we are, things always go wrong—I know it'll happen again, and that's why I'm nervous."

"Then we'll prepare for the worst," Draco said, laying his hand over hers on the table. She smiled, tired.

"Thank you," she said.

"Why thank me?" He asked, frowning.

"They don't always listen when I've got concerns over something. Harry does, sometimes, but the conversation loses its track and then even I forget. I try not to remind them so often because I don't want to sound unbearable, but lots of accidents in our past could have been avoided…" she trailed off and rubbed at her forehead, embarrassed.

"If they'd just listened," Draco finished.

"Yes."

Draco gently flipped one of her hands over on the table and traced over the creases in her palm with a fingertip.

"I'm surprised that's the case," he said. "I always assumed you were the leader of the three."

"Harry is, not me," she replied, watching his finger trail across her skin. Their tea cups sat empty and long forgotten on the table, the tea leaves gathered in small, misshapen piles at the bottom. They could hear someone walking around upstairs—Harry, or Ron?

"I suppose since I get the best marks out of the three of us they think of me as the planner," she said, softer now, as if she was afraid of being overheard. "I don't mind, not really. I do like to organize."

"And you're excellent at it. But…" Draco prompted, sensing she was about to say something she normally kept to herself. His finger trailed up to her wrist and traced over the delicate blue rivers of veins that converged there.

"I wish they didn't leave all the responsibility to me," she said. "I love them, they're family to me. But they act without thinking sometimes, and then I'm left to deal with the fallout."

She reached to him and touched his chest, her fingertips trailing down and curving, as if she had memorized the exact location of that scar. He held his breath, wondering if she would trace the others, too, but she had made her point, and her hand fell away from him. He was holding her wrist now.

"'Deal' with?" He asked. "You're not responsible for what they do. Is that why you came to see me in the Hospital Wing? Were you going to apologize on his behalf?"

"No—I don't know." Her head fell back and she sighed, looked at him. "I couldn't believe that he'd done it. I wanted to see the proof, and what that spell had done. I wanted to see if you were okay, even if I didn't know why. I'd never thought he was capable of that."

"What would you have done if I hadn't woken up and seen you there?" He asked.

"I would have snuck away," she said. "The whole time I was walking up to your cot, I was terrified. I didn't know what to expect. I wanted to see if it was as bad as the others were saying. I knew you were different by then, which I guess is why I cared." She couldn't meet his eye, suddenly. "I think I was starting to believe we'd made some progress by then, however little. I think I was unconsciously afraid that Harry doing that to you would put us back at square one."

"You had nothing to do with it," Draco said, moved by her confession. "I knew as much the moment I woke up and saw you there. You wouldn't have come at all if you'd supported that. And it _was_ technically my own fault. I started the fight, after all."

Hermione shook her head, the scene of the aftermath still fresh in her mind.

"The curse he'd used on you, he got from a potions book somebody had scribbled in years ago, and that person had created their own spells. That person must have been some sort of genius because they knew all sorts of tips and shortcuts that would cut down the potion making process. That's why Harry got so good at potions all of a sudden. He was really interested in the spells, though. I warned him not to use any of them but he did, and it could have killed you."

"Who created the spell, then?" Draco asked. His scars began to itch.

"We never figured it out. The day after, we had a huge row over it in the bell tower. The worst we've ever had."

"How bad?"

"Ron wouldn't speak to me for a while, after. Harry and I were on better terms, but I was still angry. He'd lied to me about where he was going that night—he'd seen you on the Marauder's Map and was going to confront you. He'd never lied to me like that before."

"Well, it seems you've made up since then… " He frowned. "What's this Marauder's Map? I feel like I've heard you mention that before. I take it isn't some regular map."

"Oh, sorry. Harry's dad and his friends made a comprehensive map of Hogwarts when they were students here, and charmed it so it would know the whereabouts of anyone in and around the castle. Harry was using it to track your whereabouts."

"That sneak. That explains everything." Draco uttered a humorless laugh. "A map that knows where everyone is and a legitimate Invisibility Cloak. In Potter's possession, no less."

"They were his father's," she reminded him.

"So if he was tracking me all that time, why didn't he attack me sooner? I spent a lot of time in the Room of Requirement."

"That's what had us baffled," she said. "The Room of Requirement is the only spot on the map that we know of that won't reveal who's inside. We'd lose sight of you for hours, and since we figured you didn't know how to use that room, we expected you'd gone somewhere else."

Draco nodded. "An unlucky break. There was a time or two, when I almost wished I'd be caught, just so I didn't have to go through with the mission." He raised a brow at her. "I didn't know you'd been tracking me, too."

"I wasn't," she said. "Harry was convinced you were up to something. He'd track you throughout the day with the map and tell us when he couldn't find you anywhere. I wasn't sure what to believe, since every time you and I came across each other, you did the opposite of what I expected you to do. I was suspicious, but I couldn't believe that I felt you were honest."

Draco brought her wrist to his lips and kissed it, just as the galleon in her pocket flashed hot. She pulled it out and looked at it. She stood up suddenly.

"Let's go to the library," she said, her voice urgent. "We need to find a map. We've got Umbridge's address."

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **I am SO sorry for the hideously late update. This past semester absolutely kicked my ass and I struggled to find time or energy to write. I'm very ashamed of myself, and want to apologize for this filler chapter update, but promise there's action in the next one. Thank you all so much for being patient, and hope you enjoy!**


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